Saturday, December 10, 2016

IRT and the promised blood of a sleepy driver.

I say Ice Road Truckers is exploitation in the clinical sense, not meaning that in a derogatory way.  For I too have watched the show before, and would I lump myself in with a basket of deplorables?  The exploitation, the promise of a life on the line, that danger, is the secret sauce of the show.

And Lisa Kelly-at once a heartthrob for guys and a hero for her own sex-a novice bent on proving herself.  I remember her slipping at deploying the landing gear and falling onto the ice.  Fade to black.  Commercial break.  Leaving us to wonder if she was horribly wounded and alone on the ice.  Nevermind the producer and cameraperson standing right beside her watching every moment.

And the type-A, Jack, finding himself sequestered in the world of frozen streams and snow.  The best.  Grating with his bosses.  The very thing that makes him great, that nougat core, trying to destroy him, to cost him a job despite his skill.

Alex.  Lovable Alex waiting to die behind the wheel.  A like-able old hand.  A Canadian teddy bear.

Blood on the ice.  Sangria on the rocks for the corporate executives who use the milling of the drones to douse their wretched possessions in gold.

Will the truck fall into a partially-thawed stream, losing the whole works and possibly slaughtering the driver?  Notice, most often the cameraperson is outside the truck watching the crossing, while remaining carefully out of danger.

Teevee is but a reflection of the populace.  Popular teevee is a completely mental orgasm.

Monday, December 5, 2016

Simple Marie: An Ode

For one's lover to take on the characteristics of her other, while the other is left mindless, ruined.

Aesthetic vampirism, the succubus with a conscience, the frightened gunshy harlot bemoaning the prospect of physical love

Always, in explosions and scrapes that wear away the clothing until only the tantalizing parts are covered, and that a reputable job for a popular artist, to draw the character Rogue in partial dress.

Honest love to evade her, as she gets the final touch of her other and sees his sins.  Always to the see the sins and never to enjoy the experience, to get a puff of something more pleasant than the deepest and darkest of one's soul.

Maybe she projects her own guilt, seeks the equivalent in a partner, to be a more perfect symbiote.




If I'm not happy, then no one is going to be happy.

But one touch of my eudaemonia would send her into drunkenness, as of the eating of chocolate naked on a leather coach.

Here I sound more Epicurean than Stoic, but I have the eudaemonia-the best as prescribed by a doctor.



Sunday, November 20, 2016

The life force of robots.

Classics, thought lost?  Transformers: Scramble City?

On one side: Ratchet, and on the obverse: Starscream, himself unconvincing as a scientist, held the keys to life, like arbiters before an unseen, yet unexplained creation force.

Ratchet the utilitarian, the repair bot, along with the human Spark Plug.  Ratchet with the lights synchronized with his speech, evoking a hearing test or even Frankenstein's monster with protrusions from the side of his head.

What does he know about the life force of the robots?

And even the Matrix began at some point, maybe even at the death of the first Prime of all-itself becoming connected to the sauce of mechanical life, become legendary, besought like a metallo-electrical Grail.  Insistence on winning the war became purple-skinned urgency in the Age of Galvatron and with the meddling of Unicron and the Quintessons.

But the Matrix contains life made already, and not a creation force.  The Transformer soul must be some kind of electrical sentient thing, as from a region of space where thoughts themselves, once they occur, have mass as of being matter, becoming matter.

After Steel City in which the disembodied arm of Optimus Prime fired it's big gun like a sentry, rumors of independent animation surfaced, and even whispers of zombiedom amongst the Insecticons, that every part of Optimus Prime had a deadly potential.

Cut him to pieces, and even the pieces might pursue you.

This squares with the Allspark of the popular films, that animating force that could and would give life to anything, like even in one instance, soda cans and a commercial drink machine.

The Transformers are largely distinctive in robot mode, but vehicle mode makes them even more unique and diverse in skills, whether they be a fast car, a slow off-road vehicle, a construction machine or a large truck.

Dead in the films is the myth of miniturization.  That Soundwave, himself a large bulky square-ish robot, could make himself into a tiny cassette player.  One of the coolest and most versatile of the Decepticons is then an anachronism in need of a redesign, if not for the sake of simple style, then to become sensible in the physical universe without shrinking himself down to a smaller size in transformed mode.

I also think, miniturization not withstanding, it is comfortable, natural(facetious?) for them to be in robot mode, affecting a humanoid form.  To be in vehicle mode then might be akin to appearing in blackface-as to be pretending, bending to conform to social norms.



Science, and therefore scientists, have always been at the mercy of generals.

Big Bot, big gun, even bigger whoop-ass.

Sunday, November 6, 2016

Morris's theory of ghosts, but one in a basket full of them.

Bunches and bunches of people die across the world, everyday.  Imagine the scale.  Practically every second, a person dying.

Picture a system in the universe, a process, that separates the soul from the body.

What if there are malfunctions in the system?  Not many, but maybe one percent of deaths, where souls are not stripped away and disposed of properly, that the souls do not fly through the ether freely after, but are trapped in this fallen world of inequity.

I wouldn't be happy, if I was one of those.  And maybe I would be confused.  I will have carried my worldly growth, the strives I had made, into the afterlife, but as for earthly knowledge?  Does that to pass into the ether, or are we like orphans, denied memory?

The penumbra around the earth, superimposed over layers of our atmosphere: piles upon piles of ghosts.  Unreturned and wandering souls, wandering and being without purpose, disconnected from human striving and seemingly unwanted.

Then the orphan term is surprising apt.  I give myself kudos.

Friday, November 4, 2016

do not indulge in despair

when you feel it coming on, try a disaffected confusion as you decide how you should feel, and outwardly, this will pass for a somewhat peaceful state, and that will mean--

You look stoic.

It's not winning and losing, but how you play the game-and even then that's only your internal metrics for your own judgement and the sauce of your own memories.  Are you but a landholder?  A reputation?  Winner of fifty dollars in the lottery?

Do you cry during negative visualization?  That's not stoic behavior.  If you cry, you need to find another technique.  For we effect a soulful indifference in all these matters as they unfold within our mind.

...when you love yourself, its the greatest love of all...

This is all transitional.  Put on Masters of Sex or Man In The High Castle and let the world unfold around you.  That is the easiest way to affect indifference, to distract oneself with petty entertainments.

Baseball season is over.  Behold, one woe is past; two more woes come hereafter(NFL and NBA).  Also, I don't consider Hockey a sport because the participants wear skates.  One man's opinion.  It is a game, however; I acknowledge that much.

I want a Lawn Dart section in the obstacle course on Wipeout.  Let's up the ante.  Get a little adrenaline going.  A bit of substitute teacher tar tar or rare-medium mailman.  I could be so much more meaningful than watching people compete against an obstacle course, and at the end the meaningless celebration, in which some youngling is checking off a list item in his head while his balls sweat.

...don't feel as happy to win as I thought I would....

I love you America.  Let's go to bed early tonight and turn the teevee off.  Like before we had kids.

Saturday, October 29, 2016

Profound and soulful EROS.

You can't deny yourself love.  That would be repression.  Which brings its own symptoms.

Love is of the soul, and not the rationing mind.

Some boil love down to a neuro-chemical chain of reactions.  Some, in the hard world of modern life, boil what they call love down to a series transactions, like gifts car payments or apartment rent, or candy or flowers, or meals or alcohol drinks, taking out the trash, cooking a meal or the like.

It is an expression of the soul and to stand in its way is repression.  As stated above, repression will cause all sorts of havoc in a life that was once normal.

Love is then defined at first by what could be, then in hindsight, with the ultimate end of the whole mess dictating the definition in its entirety.  A man martyred his wife by killing himself, making her the victim because she faced the consequences alone in his absence.  He did not martyr himself, but rather shirked societal responsibility.  Or an old couple, married over fifty years, would define their relationship by the accumulation of years and probably not even recognize their own estimates of the relationship from earlier, in the beginning.

I was reading that the soul is a mystery to us, though it speaks clearly through our biology.  It is like water, flowing water, with a mysterious quality to its depth and a fluid passivity, but yet has a certain strength, force and/or mass that can press us.  It is then a force that acts upon the neurological controls and the thoughts and the mere instincts.

Hard to grasp, is the soul, just like water flowing quietly along in a stream.

Thursday, October 27, 2016

Personality Theory. A overlapping scale of functionality and productivity.


The types of personality:

Type A: productive, overachieving and ambitious, usually marked out by physicality too, because of exercise and attention to health.

Nerd:  More regular, lacks in some areas, but is superlative, even nigh perfect in a few areas.  Glimmers of talent and flirtations with ambition.

Normal(O on x and y axis): A magical place, zero on the scale, in which one is not being pushed or pulled.  I argue this is not our aim, which is usually type a, but a lack of cause for complaint, not being pushed by fatigue or beset by ambitions.  Again, a magical place.  Transitional.  So many of us wish we were in this category without ever realizing that we have been there so often.

Sluggard: Unmotivated but partly functional.  Unfocused and somewhat unhappy.  Sedentary.

Reprobate:  A catch-all for bad apples.  No plan for tomorrow.  Extremely unhappy, like the sluggard, and supplemented by illicit drugs, which often represents only clear path to happiness.  Non-functional, even dangerous.

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

We both then share the same fascination.

Meggie-weg.

I knew it.

That about you.

Or at least I had hoped so much.

That you, like me, are fascinated by sex.  However, we differ in some respects, for I am most fascinated by my own sex, which I, like you, use for ratings(or that you use the sex of others to boost your ratings).

I use my own stuff because that much is like a train wreck.  Very readable.  What fantasies?

What the anvil?  What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace, was thy brain?

I like the song Great Expectations by Kiss.  Do I have expectations, projections, prognostications of the pleasure that is to come, all the while reading about Stoic self-denial, in which the Stoics approach an ascetic lifestyle?

I answer my own question with a leer.

So far away.

But this is good news, I say.  Maybe not so much for those in  your private life, that your soft underbelly has been exposed to YOUR OWN harsh searchlight.

I think Newt wants you.  You evaluate that happening on your own.

Friday, October 21, 2016

Sexual Identity as a problem.

For f*ck's sakes.  Just check the appropriate box.  It's not a question of philosophy.


But I wonder, is the red-leather clad Lokken an emblem of my own sexuality, or just a postergirl for the concept of sex?  Am I to overthink this and wind-up with a confused weewee in the recreation room?

I cannot ask you if my weewee is confused.  You have no frame of reference.  Somehow though, I think I know what you would say.

A burning emblem, then.  A 120-pixel broad and high icon of sexuality.  That Lokken that walks angrily through my mind.

AND a postergirl.  A 110-pound blonde billboard for the nasty.

What does it say that I identify sexually with an angry woman?

Monday, October 17, 2016

A stoic conundrum.

Did you, can you, find tranquility, while by accident attaining virtue along the journey?  OR Do you attempt to live a good life, by observing the virtues, and thereby, as a by-product, eventually know tranquility?

Greek or Roman?

Boxers or briefs?

McNuggets or Cheeto's Chicken Fries?

Taco Bell or Arby's?

Despite Helenized nomenclature, I labor at my burden like a true Roman, fed from the grain dole and at the behest of Caesar.  I have attained tranquility without the rugged or diligent pursuit of virtue, via prescribed anti-psychotic medications.

So I am a true Roman, living the Roman way while being transfixed and enamored by the Greek way, to strive for tranquility through virtue.

Marcus Aurelius said: "The best revenge is to not be like them."  In your eye, world.  For you might read this and be influenced by me, while my own barometer points with a jitter or a stutter towards other matters entirely.

And in that, I can love you.  Also, your attentions edify.

Let us continue the journey, then.

Thursday, October 13, 2016

argt and the spiral madness, or spiral madness and the argt

I'm gonna start collecting cans.

To capture the spiritual essence of a waterfall, an appendage may be used, as a flopping onto the canvas, and the abstract essence is captured in vertical lines.  The physical substance of the urination used to perfect the texture is captured in containers at the bottom of the canvas for later use.

This is technique as the life realization of the argt from the argtist.  There is a spiritual or cognitive effect then a physical residue that may be saved as, well, a trophy or even a totem of the process, an emblem of the catharsis of the argtistic process.

The urine must be warmed slightly to emulate the internal temperature of the body, such as how urine always feels slightly warm to the skin, or if you doo outdoors in the winter, it smokes for a few moments as if freshly microwaved.

So there is an argt product and a residue or byproduct that must be each appreciated in uniquely divergent ways and in wholly seperate, disperate processes.

a presidential campaign unlike any other, a ride that will not soon be forgotten.  worth the wait.  a real urine-slinger.  wait time is one hour at this point.

dribbling urine down the paint.  Y

And you have to communicate your visions somehow, in some legally-feasible method that is allowed by polite society.  So you buy a canvas or two and then sell your VHS-C video camera.

Spare the squirrels then, except for the stewpots.

Friday, September 30, 2016

That girl understands.

There is a ball within her that cannot be shuttered or contained.  It is always on, permanent, no matter what she is doing in her daily life.  It is a nugget of what is so often seen as fear or even confusion, but in the pretty lights of daytime it is revealed to be innocent wonder, where sometimes, too, a butterfly might flutter lazily by and even alight.

That girl understands.

She knows how it is.

So I've got alot of crap to clear out that society has packed into her head, maybe even having enough surplus stuff left after the deconstruction to host a fire sale.

Maybe I will find the flowerpot with the head of her first lover in the potting soil, that it has grown, not producing little green apples or dowdy pears or pretty flowers, but lemons, which are an acquired taste and require specific conditions, constancy.

Funny how we confuse so often, innocence, equating it to fear, confusion, stupidity, and we indulge the illusion that a woman who posts nude Instagram photos of herself has a lot of friends, yet let her be in real need and see who comes calling.  Not even her sisters like her, I expect.  They are like colleagues working a job, that life has become something of a video game and the cretins need another nudie pic to keep her name alive.

The myth of her.

Not that girl, but another girl, understands.

If only I could overwrite the brain, change the meanings of what fruits always hang from the tree, create, not ads projected at women, but a purely Sapphic grammar that honors her.

And she doesn't need to post nude selfies for me to call her.

--
(a fold)

Erica Parsons body was found in a shallow grave.  This disturbs me, along with the prospect that the schmoe who buried her may have struck some sort of deal with prosecutors, even while he sits in jail for another crime.  I say, FBI, lie to that man, that you can lie to a suspect to induce a confession or an admission of guilt in any form.

Wonderful Donald is right that these people are giving away the store with their inane deals.  WE need to win on one of these deals, sometime.

--
(another fold)

I had sudden bathroom urges earlier in the week.  I mean sudden.  BOOM.

Curse of the Folgers.  And we had National Coffee Day this week.

No specific incident to report.

Spillage is not always indicative of a boon, nor soilage always a loss.

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

The calculus of essence

I was watching the popular bit of political theater last night, when I felt what I could only describe as a deficit of essence, or, in the common vernacular, I felt run down because of a fever.

I felt lower and lower until I was beset by self-doubts in the little hours. How strange that physical infirmity would be accompanied by self-doubt!

I awakened in morningtide feeling somewhat better, but not fully recovered yet.  Thankfulness was on my lips, though, as I was thankful for having passed through the trouble.

As for the political theater, I felt no lacking in my own resolve, but rather the same surefootedness in regards to my favorite candidate.  The other candidate smiled like a jack-o-lantern, but I digress.  I withhold my endorsements and don't usually talk politics in the open.

But I'm still tired, so bear with me, my friends.

So I discover physical essence and mental or spiritual essence are linked.  This is important.  Because I have hyper phases in which I can but catch hold of some notion and do it some good with my then-prodigious essence.

But I feel a lot better.  I'm like a beach after a hurricane: frazzled but there, and the edges of that frazzlement are still interjecting upon my person despite my partly recovered vitality.

My stalking energy is returning, which is a bigger motivation with me than many people realize, but its all benevolent.  I fear I knocked someone in North Carolina off the airwaves and possibly out of a job, but that was intended benevolent, too, for I was simply making commentaries after-the-fact about a favorite usually-cheery news segment.  Presently I'm hoping the segment and the reporter do return to work and file some reports.

I hope.

For the Good News, I say!  Let it be continuous, never-ending: a bursting firehose of positivity.  Again I talk about them hoes.  Lol.

Sunday, September 11, 2016

15 Years After: Not Forgetting

Remember.

There used to be a process in the electronics manufacturing process, near the end of the assembly line, called "burn-in" in which sometimes devices were just powered-up for the first time, depending on the necessity of the initial process.

Human memory works like that, I think: a "burn-in" process in which memories are etched and can only be removed or ignored through some malfunction.

I know where I was fifteen years ago.  It feels like a lifetime, tho.  I was a younger man, twenty-one years old with all the worries of the single man working a seasonal job.  My work had just knocked-off for the year weeks earlier and my time was all my own.

I recorded the CBS coverage on a VHS tape, hosted by then muck-a-muck Dan Rather, but soon after recorded something over that.

The formats may come and go, but the memories are forever.  Wish now I had kept that tape, even changed the channel a time or two to the other networks.  Fox and CNN were pre-empting other network programming all day.  If you did not want to see, in other words, you really had to just look away.

But I was one of those people that wanted a reckoning, one just as bloody as the attack itself, and it seemed only a war of some kind would suffice.  But in those early days, there were so many unfocused reactions, and as I remember on day one, we did not know who to blame.

I like what Eric Shawn said on teevee even as I write this: Remember; Stay Together.

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Two knuckles deep; unapolagetically so.

I was two knuckles deep, and unapolagetically so.

I could hear my breath.  My bref so harsh.

It was in a survival shelter in the Hamptons where my musing of the future came back to me as but a dream, or like a dream.  So much meaningless fluff.

The future had been washed away by fire.

So many gone.  So many empty bodies left behind.

In the survival shelter I can scream and sing and do a little routine, just to keep normal, to keep sane.  But I digress away from the two knuckles.

I like to get into something.  Sometimes.  Good for a lark, and a bane of boredom.

My bref come so hard.  My heart is slamming into the sides of my meat like thunder!

Freeze-dried soups, a powder with sodium added for flavor.  Turns out sodium is an essential nutrient, and you can, if you have a maladjusted diet, find yourself wanting.

The empty static of the FM radio is like a white-noise generator, helping me sleep.  The station stayed on autoplay a long time before the transmitter went down.  I was impressed as I sat there idly appreciating the playlist the station built.

I shoot my trashpile with a flare and listen to the sicky-whoosh of the fire jut from the flare's ass.  Trash is wet.  Won't burn.

So I have started The Last Dump On Earth.  I muse about this as I take The Next Piss On The Earth.  I muse how everything has become so superlative, official, important.  I regret that.



Thursday, August 18, 2016

Back To The Future 2: a psychotic musing, along with a novelty grease

We ask ourselves, as Marty sees the broken vision of his future self, will he learn his lesson?




Sometimes something can bring to mind a snatch of memory.


"Roads?"

Anyhow.  What a familiar looking future, but with technology.  The hoverboard.  The heater coat.  The motorized shoe laces.  None of which came to pass.  Such a famous film, but what failed prophecy.

But in the future, there is Fistful of Dollars, which foretells the trainwreck of a sequel which was set in the old west.  Which kinda makes the third film a codified retelling of the second film.  Wow.

A dark future wrested from the hands of Biff Tannon, by the diligence of Marty.

The Leone film was the first in a progression, an artistic cycle that became ever grander in each picture.  The soundtrack had something like eight songs.  Some of these were repeated quite a bit in the film.  There were two people in town besides Clint and the gangs.  Clint's anti-hero did not even have the dignity of a name.  This was then a quick meditation on Kurosawa's Yojimbo, and it splashed, glittering in all its simplicity, like a golden nugget can be pure and simple, yet luster in the light.

But if you could change the future, would you?  If you could see the dullness of the future, would you want to change it, even if the personal cost was great?

Hope is essential to nudge us forward, as the turtle-nose of the future slow pushes us through the sand.  Look behind you at the path you have left.  Look ahead and think of the wonders waiting.  But be honest with yourself, this time.  What wonders await you?

I remember at 17 looking ahead with my imagination and seeing nothing.  I was correct, like a good fortune-teller, in some regards, for there were many, many empty moments, but there have also been great lessons.

In personal crisis, I redefined the world in my mind, then redefined myself.  I didn't find myself lacking, for I know there are untapped capacities in this man, but it was the world that looked at me, defined me, underestimated me.

I so hate being misunderstood.

Sometimes something can bring back a snatch of memory, of both the good and bad-for I must cherish both, even looking upon past tribulation with a kind of pride at having survived, an edified hindsight.

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

pop culture confusion

"It was a pleasure to burn."  -Ray Bradbury, line the first of his novel Farenheit 451.


An overly-controlled society, like the failed socialist experiments of Europe, in which books are called dangerous-for indeed, the wisdom contained in books would refute the progressive agenda.  Control is what is needed then, and in Bradbury's novel, there are bands of men that are assigned to burn books wherever they are found.

Moving right along:

"Pleasure to burn" -Camel cigarettes advertisement.


The lost and now-taboo world of tobacco advertising.  When the world was a different place, more innocent somehow, but thought through the dark lens of hindsight to be more open to blood.

What whimsy in the casual smoker!


Pretty sophisticated for a backwards society, no?

They look so happy without smartphones and streaming video.  I would feel sorry for them, but hey, screw them all.  I'm here in the fat and happy now, and they are then on bias-ply tires.


A cold soda right out of the freezer chest was a delicacy.  A little fan with metal blades was a good friend on a hot day.  Gardens, everywhere!

Trucks were cheap, belt buckles were fancy.

And most importantly, a painting of a woman smoking a cigarette was not segregated onto a fetish website, but in a popular magazine!

"It was a pleasure to burn" could be the mantra of progress as it tears down and forcibly wrings change into the world.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

U and ur cervix: a lecture by ur mikl.

U cervix is special, like a button or medal given for merit.

Mikl wan see.  Make mikl feel like him looking into a loaded gun.

To live under the gun is to be on the wire.  The rest is just waiting.

U cervix cause the infection if not cared for, that little bug, that little nugget of flesh with its eldrich unseeing see.

Care for it like a secret, that you care for, like having a bar of gold in u purse and not wanting ppl around you to know about it.

Like caring for a good reliable work truck, wash inside and outside, wipe away excess discharge, and just like TBN, keep it clean.

When exposing it to the open air, make sure you are in absolute, secure privacy and Caitlyn Jenner is nowhere around.  Mikl himself likes taking an open air piss sometimes.  It connects amigdala-level thinking of Mikl, those old instincts, and the amigdala too is another nugget of flesh, but this in the brainstuffs where the thinking happens, the old primordial cave man muscle of thought.

Service should be shut down at the main when initiating service, repair or maintenance.  The technician may find a rime of liquid on the parts, but such is to be expected, even anticipated and worked with.

Shot through the grease:  if a lubricant is used in service, extra care must be used to securely grip wrenches and other equipment items, so no service items are lost or otherwise misplaced during service work.

Use the Buddy System:  this is just like playing a child's game of Marco Polo in a swimming pool.  Call and answer any technician that is working with you during service.  Be sure to answer when called.  Keep the line of communications open between you and the other service technician, so that service is kept as brief and productive as possible.

Saturday, August 6, 2016

Joey Logano tries harder.

Thank God that Joey Logano is on our side.  If he weren't he'd kick your ass and the man Walker Texas Ranger's ass, all in front of your girlfriend, your toy dog, and the Cops camera crew.

Joey Logano is the El Chapo Guzman of Nascar.

He's Avis Rent-a-car.  He just tries harder, and all the while Kyle B is worried about how he looks in the history books.

Brad K?

Don't make me laugh(no offense to Brad K, but we're talking apples and oranges here).

Joey Logano is the Rocky Balboa and Kyle Busch is the Apollo Creed.

Joey Logano will knock your snowcone out of your hand and laugh in your face.  Because he has skills.

His Kryptonite, however, is Home Depot sponsorship.  Put him in orange and you can count him out.

(if your name is Greg Biffle, just ignore this next two paragraphs)

The number three and four cars in the team are never meant to win.  That's what Roush and the other megateams would never admit to the public.  The manchild Johnny Benson, then, was not supposed to make a big splash in Cup racing, but instead, contribute to the team's testing of equipment and set-ups, and that was also in an area where the team had TWO perennial championship contenders in Jeff Burton and Mark Martin.

Own the top-five?  Sure thing, dawg.  But all contend for the win?  Pssh!  Not intended, and to have that happen would upset the natural balance.  Dogs would befriend cats, birds would lay down with cats, and maybe women would finally accept me as I am.

Let's talk Mercedes AMG racing.  The media psyched-out Rosberg.  They keep ripping the FIA World Driving Championship right out of his insecure hands.  The english-speaking media gush over Hamilton, and I say that as an observation, not as a criticism, for Hamilton is an outstanding performer.  Rosberg has some moments of villiany this year, and I wonder if he will embrace obstinance and self-worship ala Michael Schumacher.  It makes for good racing when we get a big personality into it.  The great Ayrton Senna himself was a big personality, egotistical and mega-talented.  I had thoughts that Nico had wasted some of his best years at Williams, but the fire is still there, he's still youngish and pushing, and I look forward to a Rosberg championship at some point.

Mil Lesions contra Overkill: Iron Man Match

Mil Lesions was shaking his head, as if confused or beset by bees.  Maybe he was trying to literally shake loose something in his own mind, or hoping the thoughts would fly from his ears like little insects.

It was clear he was having a problem within himself, Mil Lesions.

How do fighters solve their problems, you ask?  They fight.  They bundle all of those personal issues, steel themselves and step into the squared circle.

Mil Lesions told the world in a promo he could go a long way toward putting all of his problems behind him, by working them out on the head of Overkill.

But Overkill did not have an active role in the problems of Mil.  So this was to be a sacrifice, and as history tells us, sacrifices are often bloody.

To see the high-flying agility of Overkill neutralized by the iron grasp of the beast Lesions was, to paraphrase, like seeing Old Age have a go with Youth.  The vitality of Overkill was turned to weariness and pain, and Mil Lesions was feeling quite on top of the world again.

At the expense of Overkill.

Sometimes it was the role of a fighter to take a therapeutic beating from another fighter, as he worked out his personal problems upon the person of the other.

Now Mil Lesions gardens and writes devotionals.  He sold his motorcycle to fund a pergola in his garden.  He donates his time at the local soup kitchen, and always gets compliments on his polite manner.

But Overkill, you ask, how did he fare?  Don't ask.  He is less than a footnote in the booking catalog.

Thursday, August 4, 2016

Chopstop: I have optimism for them boys.

Matt Kemp.  Okay.

I think of the turtle pushing the plastic palm tree around the fishbowl as Mel Torme croons "High Hopes".  But I'm feeling it.  I have enthusiasm and optimism for my ATL Bravos.  Worst-to-first 2017 could be in the works people.  Will John Hart be a hero or a goat?

Its making good teevee at least, even if they ain't piling up the victories left and right.  They new pitchers getting better and better.  Freddie's hitting streak.  All that good stuff.  I be loving it and watching on it.

And Jim Johnson back as the reliever and having success.  It's fresh pressure on which the closer usually thrives, something to get the adrenaline going.  Or something like that.

Friday, July 29, 2016

You don't remember this place being paradise, but how it did change!

Once there was only one person on the Earth.  This was like paradise.

For the sake of companionship, another person was made.  Love came between them, and that was the start of the whole mess.

All that pesky gratification.  Eating fruits directly off the trees.  Amazon mailing farm-fresh produce in cartons through the UPS.

Love's indecent sisters is jealousy.  And did she run wild.

One would think, if the place was so perfect, why was there a serpent, but then I don't know either.  It was said the serpent was not loathsome of fearsome as the one's in our own age, but beautiful.  So it too was window dressing for paradise, perhaps eating of lesser creatures when they came out of balance in overcrowding.

Lets get back to the gratification.  Sloth and gluttony, two easy sins that don't often require much effort, or even any dark emotions within the heart.  So simple, so easy to just sit there and eat the Chips Ahoy or the Ruffles Cheddar and Sour Cream.

Its so easy.  And in the ease of sin, we find a forbidden glimpse of that old paradise.

Eternal torment comes later.  Worry about the bridge when you come to it.

Saturday, July 23, 2016

the doomsayer element in film.

The doomsayer is usually portrayed as an old man.  In reality, there were oracles and witches and voodoomen about that had a secret knowledge that people required.  In dreams, there is the anima/animus figure, in men represented by an old woman shrouded in darkness.  That is in Jungian terms, age for wisdom and darkness for how the truth of that figure is obscured to us, the viewer.

In the previously mentioned Wes Craven films(Last House On The Left, Hills Have Eyes, and Nightmare On Elm Street), there is a doomsayer only in Last House On The Left.  He had a sense of exactly what was going to happen, and he was heading for the hills himself, but only too late.

Friday the 13th had the figure of the aimless Ralph, a somewhat nutty old man on a bicycle.  His wisdom may have been nullified by circumstance.  But he was right nonetheless, no matter how crummy his clothes or bicycle were, no matter how inarticulate his speech.  Those people were doomed, just like he said.

Like he said to their startled faces.

Perhaps the greatest of the prophetic Doomsayers, for me as a horror fan, is Doctor Samuel Loomis in Halloween, as portrayed by Donald Pleasance.  He knew what was happening, bought a gun, and went in and got his hands dirty cooling out the situation.  Now one can argue, that by injecting himself as the hero in the end, that he is not a doomsayer, but a hero, like a lawman of an old cowboy epic on the trail of the villian.

But the moviegoing public and John Carpenter kept Jamie Lee Curtis as the center of that universe, that she is the hero for even surviving the horror.

Keeps the plot going.  Got a lull?  Toss in a cryptic warning that eats at the edges of the bright sunlight of day: the night is coming; make ready yourself for doom.  This was the exactitude of Friday the 13th, though there were early kills, too, but this contributed to perhaps the solidity of the mass of the film, as an extra element in the sauce of summer camp story: that we never forget and feel at least a sense of dread, if not outright Spider-sense tingles.

Friday, July 22, 2016

a visual device for writing. look at this crap.


Insane isn't it?

The above is a very crude diagram I spent a minute or two drawing. It is to be used to help me sort of put of together a story as a mechanism, being like a machine, turning a source material into something else entirely by the time one has read the story.  Input one thing, the machine modifies it and something different is output, like the light bulb, with its electricity outputted as light.

In my most abstract brainstorming is any of my stories thought of as a mechanism or machine.  The accompanying visual has a rendering in letters:  mfx7m.  I have fun in my writing, thinking in the abstract, using pictures to simulate the process, like the very opposite of Henry James talking about picture in writing, as in not describing a scene but making a picture that illustrates a rather abstract concept of the working of a story: the action.



The shapes of the various lines are created with crude letters, with adds an extra dimension, a physical codification, along with an order, but as we see in this depiction, the output is dispersed as light but continuing on along in a circuit.  That dualism is a conundrum whereas the individual outputs are themselves depictions of many different things in metaphor.

mFx7m

The operation of a light bulb.  The incandescent kind, that is.  I goes classical in my diagrams that I may be understood easily.  Better to show a filament electrified into a discharge of brightness than some excited gas in a newfangled bulb.

Tuesday, July 12, 2016

Do the Wrong Thing: Dallas Sniper compared to Spike Lee films

To the chief, Barry O: the people are indeed divided.  Don't be fooled because you are surrounded by people that think like you.  Just look around honestly.

But some people make division policy.  And I don't mean Trump; I mean Barry O himself, fostering class division through dreams of income redistribution.  This is a polarized path and poisonous to thoughtful moderates; if given a choice, they would deny that snake oil and go for a GOP option that is stated milder, regardless of the real details(because not many of us watch CSPAN or read bills that go through congress).

But, Abaddon, where does Mookie and Tina come into this?  Well.  There are no games anymore, because they are angry at the boys in blue and they are in the streets protesting.  Spike Lee would approve, I think: the taking to the streets for equality.

All this nitpicking over accidents.

The hands were together on 9/11, but they have since pulled apart thanks to a concerted effort by the two-party political system.

Put your hands by your hips.  Make a fist of your left hand.  Now we will refer to that as a potato, as in a "hot potato".  Progressive.  The people that put the Constitution on the back of the working man, make him run, then observe that as a moving target: the yellowed paper scampering along stuck to a union member.

Make a fist of your right hand, and we will call it a hot potato, too, but hot in a different way, hot for personal responsibility, not blaming the system, not seeing accidents as something more.  Obstinate.  Conservative.

The crescendo this time is the angry man hijacking the protest movement for his own designs of mass murder.  Micah Johnson was our Remy.

Saturday, July 9, 2016

Rasslin' with Bergman.

I've seen a lot of his work.  I understand him better than Fellini, but like his Italian counterpart, Bergman could often be insular.  It is to be wondered if he captured so much his life in codified form in his work.  Often his characters played very flat, with a scant hint of torment; they played almost stoic and monkish, from the Seventh Seal to the present case in point of From the Life of Marionettes.

I can see his appeal among film students and younger adults in a certain flattening of feeling, as such the youths can be sometimes be numb to the things around them, appealing even to the counter-culture in his stoicism, that it expressed is cool, almost bored.

In From the Life of Marionettes, photography is off and on, dialogue is off and on; with so many believing Bergman dialogue brilliant, he chews a lot of scenes with musings of nothing consequential.  In such a sparse film, faces, eyes, noses, lips of actors are to express something, and in that I wonder how much is lost between the decades and the coasts of the Atlantic Ocean.  Most importantly, in Marionettes, we are treated to a long diagnosis of our hero by a psychiatrist, which is essential, giving us the clear indication that other attempts to hint at his state in scenes, frankly fell flat.

I did however like the plot of Virgin Spring, even if the camera was lazy and did not foster expression.  It was so emotionless, stoic like Max Von Sydow.

Friday, July 8, 2016

The Virginal Survivor in Horror Movies.

Wes Craven matured into the idea of a Virginal Survivor with Nightmare On Elm Street, but therein the concept was not pure because of the realization and empowerment of the Virginal Survivor in the climax; Craven did this on his own terms then, and before making the virginity of the leading lady an openly discussed topic in Scream, even stating in words erroneously that virginity was requisite for survival.  Before Nightmare, Craven made all of his heroines endure rape, and where the first dies a slow death from a gunshot, the next takes revenge and survives(so therein is a sub-arc in Craven's work, a progression from a Bergman off-shoot to the development of his own empowered heroes/heroines with gadgets and booby traps actively taking revenge on the monsters).

It was not sex that precipitated death most often in Friday the 13th films, but vulnerability expressed in nudity-of which the first film features a game of "Strip Monopoly".  Then in that universe, it was not virginity, but prudishness or morals that saved the leading lady, leaving her safely tucked away until the climax, tucked away while her friends are murdered.  The FBI, in luring Jason out of the woods, sends a female agent to the shower for bath time, which draws Jason Voorhees near like a big electromagnet.  Bill Lustig's Maniac gave us vulnerability murders, even staging one scene in a subway bathroom; this film is a monolith of the sub-genre, seemingly spawning out of its own universe with it own dictates, its own rules, though it observes, establishes or upholds, largely, the trappings of the sub-genre while yet maintaining focus on the disturbed main character.

What we see most often now is not necessarily a virginal character, but a tormented, introspective heroine.  Surviving or even killing the monster is a validation or just good therapy, so in the modern vernacular, the woman becomes a long-haired beautiful Beowulf, at first seen as Thelma from Scooby-Doo, and at-once an anti-hero surpassing the stripe of the great cowboy and cops and robbers and road films.

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

"I'm getting things sorted out." "Screw you. Goodbye, Alice."

Friday the 13th 2, 3, and 4 represent an epic run that, in storytime, encompasses what, no more than two weeks?  Jason watches one day, kills the next.  He starts with Alice, then the cop, and on and on, from spot to spot, even thought dead and escaping the hospital, which doesn't even make him lose a whole day before getting more kills.  Just an epic continual run, with the letting of Alice's blood beginning an onslaught of murder, that through three films, just kept going forward relentlessly.


"This is Jake.  From State Farm."

And Alice, the girl with the unspecified troubles, letting it out in her art.  She started the whole mess by having the gall to survive the first film, but, she gets hers.  Yes, she does.  Then Jason has a spot of tea as her corpse loses its lifeheat.  This much defies formula, but there had to be an excuse to introduce Jason, which I would have had an organized but fruitless search for Alice conducted by Jason, with him finding her in a later film.

Again, someone said revenge is better imagined than realized.  Jason, sitting in his shack in the woods, disagreed, and thought revenge, a campaign of murder, was just the thing to set him to rights.

But, at the outset, a franchise that helped establish the slasher formula throws a monkeywrench and through the lines delivered by Amy Steele, actively ponders the what and why of Jason, and she does so as a DOOMSAYER and the VIRGINAL SURVIVOR.

Sunday, June 26, 2016

Worriers, come out and play-yay.

Color me unphased.

Obama has been talking crumbling infrastructure for eight years, yet he pats himself on the back about the Affordable Care Act.  They want new revenue streams and new programs, while letting the old responsibilities languish, such as schools and roads.

They should not have joined the EU in the first place.  Just my two cents, which, with trade such as it is, would be a king's ransom in the seat of the empire.

I've had other things on my heart, recently, like a new book and some thought of religious doctrine.  The two subjects are not wholly separate, by the way.  This is turmoil, in a sense, but also good for me, because I always come out the other side better than before.

Cursed is a man that will not learn his lessons.

The Quebe sisters are just great.  Love that sound and the fiddle interplay.  Just had to tell you that.  Meanwhile Taylor talking about "in your wildest dreams".  Who is fooling who, honey?

I should also take a minute to tell the reader how important he/she is to me.  That much has not changed, no matter what current events blow around in the ether.  It's me and you against the world, as always.

Thursday, June 16, 2016

The Opera of the Unseemly(a reflection on exploitation cinema)

Within the opera of the unseemly-the sublime and the cheap engineering of a fever dream, there is something of a cadence, a cyrcadian rhythm to the whole bit, that the doors of nightmare open for a good peek, then we go back to the contrived story, not just to immediately fling the doors of that nightmare right open and make the entire remainder of the film but a dull but sated afterglow, but to build and sustain tension throughout the piece, with little hopes and anxieties and spikes of turmoil: however we got a proper appetizing shot of the illicit in the beginning, if for no other reasons, just to get the works off on the good foot.

In the one-off scene, we are immediately brought to the point of the uncomfortably erotic, wanting to hide ourselves under pillows or blankets or even a pet cat-whatever is conveniently nearby-to deny that we are enjoying the debasement of another, precious and wretched defilement, precious and wretched at once, putting some element of the victim on a pyre as to destroy it, destroy a piece of them, some element like dignity even while worshipping and exalting in their presence, their discomfort and exposure.

I think of I Spit On Your Grave-that work of dignity and prestige-fake penetration and endless minutes of footage of the rapists disrobing themselves, how we become almost at one with the victim, like we have married her, come through the mess before and even built a relationship at some point during endless feigned rapings in which she lies lethargic-but we are not lethargic, oh no; we have blood going through unfamiliar pathways, hidden caveman things becoming excited through rushing blood and the tingle of innervation.

That it is uncomfortable is that sleepaway moment that beckons so many: wanting and simultaneously not wanting, curious but afraid, as we as viewers are uncomfortable in several bodily spots-I think of the stomach-yet we cannot look away, even if our malaise drives us to vomit all over the living room in front of the still running moviefilm.

Am I coming towards a rapist lurking somewhere within?

Monday, June 13, 2016

Screenplay: Under the Sun(chapter four)

Narrator
"So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that are done under the sun: and behold the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no comforter; and on the side of their oppressors there was power; but they had no comforter."
(on "I returned" CUT TO: Terrapin Square, bustling)
(on "under the sun" CUT TO: sun shot w/artifacts, w/sickly avian caw)

CUE CU on Azalea screaming.  Her face fills the screen.  Her eyes are ablaze with hatred, her mouth open, her teeth showing like animal fangs.  Gone is her former beauty.

Narrator
"Wherefore I praised the dead which are already dead more than the living which are yet alive."

CLOSE ON Sarah laughing, in slow-motion, as if in conversation with Narrator, her looking straight on, as if from Narrator's POV.  Her face is happy, bringing remembrance of former happiness, that though they were young and their relationship undeveloped, Sarah and the Narrator were geniunely happy.

Narrator
"Yea, better is he than both they, which hath not yet been, who hath not seen the evil work that is done under the sun."
(on "under the sun" CUT TO: sun shot w/artifacts, soundtrack sting)

FULL on Narrator from inside POV, standing in doorway of unlit room, his back to us, while he faces without, his attention focused without.  He and the doorway are all reflective, meditative bits, that he considers the without while none of what he sees touches him.

Narrator
"Again, I considered all travail, and every right work, that for this a man is envied of his neighbor.  This is also vanity and vexation of spirit."
(on "vexation" CUT TO: bitter face)

FULL on Narrator picking at a fruit plant in a closed courtyard.  The fruit plant is big, almost the height of the narrator, but not quite, so it is a youngling compared to his other plants on his first estate.  We see the scale of his operation has disminished to the level of a mere hobby.

Narrator
"The fool foldeth his hands together,and eateth his own flesh.  Better is an handful with quietness, than both the hand full with travail and vexation of spirit."
(on "vexation" CUT TO: bitter face)

MEDIUM on Azalea, dressed well, at a big dining table, at the head, while SERVANTS work around her.  The  face of Azalea is empty, like an appliance when out of use.  On the table is a floral arrangement.  She seems austere and commanding, important while the shapes of SERVANTS move this way and that around her and before her, putting things on table.

MEDIUM on Floral Arrangement, sitting stationary, center-mass amidst dinner table.

Narrator
"Then I returned, and I saw vanity under the sun."
(on "returned" cue long on terrapin square)
(on "under the sun" cue sun shot w/artifacts)

CUE on Azalea screaming (again).  Repetition is requisite for flavor.

Narrator
"There is one alone, and there is not a second; yea, he hath neither child nor brother: yet there is no end of all his labour; neither is his eye satisfied with riches; neither saith he, For whom do I labour, and bereave my soul of good?   This also is vanity, yea, it is a sore travail."

FULL on CHILD 1 throwing a stone absently into distance.  We see the arc of the stone as it travels, and then bounces along the ground.

TIGHT on stone rolling to a stop in the dirt.  We might wonder if the words of the Narrator roll a stop in the bleak blankness of the open exposed dirt of the dooryard.

Narrator
"Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labor.   For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up."

MEDIUM on Narrator and Child 1 tending the flower plants in his otherwise bleak courtyard.  Their backs are turned to us, with their attention drawn to the plant, which is just slightly visible between the father and son.

Narrator
"Again, if two lie together, then they ave heat: but how can one be warm alone?  And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken."

MEDIUM, Narrator in focus in fg, lying on his side in bed, regarding the empty room with a thoughtful face(this is because he is a thoughtful man, with a face that seems caught in the alert state of minding his own train of thought).  In the background, behind him, lying face-up on the bed is Azalea.  She is austere and prim, poised, even in slumber.

Narrator
"Better is a poor and a wise child than an old and foolish king, who will no more be admonished.  For out of prison he cometh to reign; whereas also he that is born in his kingdom becometh poor."

CLOSE on CHILD regarding ground.  It should be apparent now that he has grown, either by a hairdo or the size of his clothing.

CLOSE OVERHEAD POV on Child's rocks and circle.  There are more rocks, showing that the atom is more complicated, with rocks about the middle scattered and rocks on the line of the circle.  Gone is the simplicity of the hydrogen atom.

LONG on Azalea, in full party dress, in center of a crowded gathering in the Narrator's dining room.  Even amidst the merriment of her guests, she cannot hide her stern countenance.

Narrator
"I considered all the living which walk under the sun, with the second child that shall stand up in his stead."
(on "under the sun" CUT TO: sun shot w/artifacts)

MEDIUM on Pregnant Azalea standing beside a worn wooden post in the evening.   She looks uneasy, unpleasant, and generally not nice by the set of her face.  By now we have seen her many times, but never yet in quite a pleasant way.

Narrator
"There is no end of all the people, even of all that have been before them: they also that come after shall not rejoice in him.  Surely this is also vanity and vexation of spirit."

CUE Azalea screaming.  In repetitions, meanings are jumbled and jostled constantly.
(on "vexation" CUT TO: bitter face)
CUE Azalea screaming again(after BITTER FACE)

Heavy Metal Weekend: A Reflection


I'm talking to you.

"What's that knocking on my door: hiphop, house blend or hardcore?"

Some people just want to while away the weekend.  Who could ask for more, but to unwind after a dismal week of shovelling french fries?


Look at the Rachel Maddow-type standing there like she is unaffected by goings-on.

Its just now getting good.

A little programmed rest and relaxation, or maybe just some binge watching.  With the "show hole", or mid-season psychosis, where the world melts away and all there is the show.  There is a world out there, people.


Now.  I'm not trying to make you mad. Though usually when someone says "I'm not trying to make you mad, but...", usually you're about to hear something you don't want to hear.


The audience is unreceptive-only wanting their pre-conceived notions re-enforced by the droning from the screen.  But this is not what I offer.  I risk wasting wise words on an unwilling audience, to "cast my pearls before swine", with my words being pearls and you all being the swine.  You don't have to stay that way.  I love you and consider you a friend.  You are important to me.

But sometimes don't you just feel like you're talking to people in a different language, that the words aren't sinking in?


I'll keep talking and you read on.  Like the above woman, I speak not for one minute or two minutes or even three minutes, though the task seems gargantuan.  I speak for three minutes and forty-seven seconds, just to make sure I've gotten the point across.


My hope is your deliverance, that you are delivered and redeemed even as I am delivered and redeemed, because we all need that.  No?

Rescue or deliverance can take many forms and vary in degrees.  But you should burst from your box and hold your hands up, feeling the air, feeling and relishing your freedom.

Anyway, it was a good weekend, Tater.  I watched some, read some, wrote some and thought a bit.  Thought about you and me and all of them out there that needs something more in our lives, if only we were receptive.

Thursday, June 9, 2016

A Day In The Life/With Gratitude to Henri


I awaken to FM Top 40.  Radio.  I take to Sirius/XM 60's and 70's revues to begin the day on a more productive note.  The tunes are like old friends, comforting like a blanket, even sometimes beckoning me to dance along with the musicians.

I dig the oldies.  Ferry Cross the Mersey and such.


Carmelita and I take to the books for study and mental refreshment.  She likes my vocal impression of Sancho Panza, and she giggles into a delicate hand.  I quote the Bible on Facebook, while posting cribbed photos on my blog.


Upon returning alone to my rooms, I am overcome by a profound emptiness.  I think of gazing into an old stone draw well, into its darkness, with a peak of reflection at the bottom in the waters, showing me my own blank, featureless expression.

You give what you get, it is said, and if that much is true, I am in for a world of disappointments.

Friedrich Nietzsche said something about gazing into the abyss and the abyss gazing back into the observer, and I take that emptiness does reflect, and even sometimes propigate, like an aggressive disease.

Wednesday, June 8, 2016

The ChopStop Inaugural Edition: The Run To All-Star Break 2016

They made Fredi the goat.  Maybe he can get a job at a petting zoo.

I yearn for not only a top-performing team, but stability in leadership, therefore, I hope not only for the success of Snitker, but a long tenure.

Still missing Shelby Miller.  I bet he asked to get out of such a dismal situation last year, tho.  But also, I'm still missing Medlen and Hudson and Hanson and Sheets.  I get attached to those dudes.  During their stays in the ATL, I hanged my hopes on them, if only for a few hours a day.

HOWEVER, the show is getting good.  Folty has surprised after a few dismal starts, and Blair has shown flashes of brilliance.  It's really something to watch, these young pitchers maturing.

Mallex Smith seems to have gotten over his Freshman jitters and become quite the competent ball player.

Looking ahead to the Redemption of Olivera, and yes, I know I'm way early on this, but I like a good redemption story(hell, I lived one!).

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

I done told you one time.

You were warned years back about my writing.  You read.  But you didn't believe.

I'm subverting so much of what you know about writing, forcing you to either throw the book down in frustration or read on and learn something.

Sex is still a point of interest.  Sex as a subject can be accessed in words in a variety of ways, but I warn you that what seems like sex in my writing, might be something different.

Agreed.  On that we are on the same page, but cathartic shows of pleasure are not my bag, but rather a sore whimper from the quietude under the porch, a gleat of despair.

I'm operating from another place.

This is all a design.

You will see differently after reading my work.

Now excuse me, while I kiss the sky.  And finish my supply of gourmet ramen.

I sound so deadpan about all of this, but in truth what I feel is placid, smooth as a glass of water sitting on a table.

The banality of Abaddon1215.

Monday, June 6, 2016

Screenplay: Under The Sun Chapter Three

Narrator
"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven."

Opposite POV, LONG on housefront, NARRATOR on steps, child playing, crouching in dirt, tree in corner of shot.

Narrator
"A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;"

MEDIUM ON Child, focused on play on ground.

OVERHEAD ON Child playing marbles, the play field.  He shoots the rocks out until there is a shooter in the middle and one on the circle line, mimicking what modern science tells us to be a hydrogen atom.

  Narrator
"a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;"

The stone on the line is knocked out by the child, destroying the hydrogen atom by dispersing it's lone electron.

Narrator
  "a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance;"

MEDIUM on Narrator tilling field behind a massive, slow moving ox.  The dusty soil, when turned is dark, appearing more fertile by his efforts.

Narrator
  "a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;"

LONG ON Child wandering away towards brush, camera pov from house side, as if going out into the world alone, and as if searching, but in his inexperience, not even knowing what he is searching for.

Narrator
"a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;"

MEDIUM ANGLE on Narrator sitting on his steps, contemplative.

Narrator
"a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;"

LONG on Narrator broadcasting seeds around tilled field.  He does this slowly, as if lacking enthusiasm or tired.  His face could forecast either eventuality.

Narrator
"a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace."

MEDIUM on Narrator and Friend talking and cajolling joyfully.  The smile of the narrator seems geniune and happy, but still worn down by his troubles, like a diseased man enjoying temporary relief from his ailment.  By this point in the story, his hair has been lightening to gray and his bitter face emphasized, but he should have become more worn, skin beaten and aged prematurely by weather, time, and the sun.  Along also is the notion that he has earned by his own sweat his increase, that he has performed profitable work for his farm while the slaves tended his house.

Narrator
"I have seen the travail, which God hath given to the sons of men to be exercised in it.  He hath made everything beautiful in his time: also he hath set the world in their heart, so that no an can find out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end."

MEDIUM on Child, cloaked, sitting, removing chunks of bread from a sandwich, throwing the bread pieces to birds, who, after a BEAT, approach nervously and eat the jump away before taking flight.

INTERCUT CU on Child's face, occupied in the task of breaking the bread, eyes watching the birds, but it is a matter of debate as to whether he is really watching them or absorbed in what he is doing physically.  In the absence of sentiment in the eyes in an unguarded moment is an implied apathy toward the matter focused upon.

Narrator
"I know there is no good in them, but for a man to rejoice, and to do good in his life.  And also that every man should eat and drink, and enjoy the good of all his labour, it is the gift of God."

LONG(Centered, Rear POV) on Narrator, walking into his house, at a moderate pace.   At first he dominates our field of vision, then he shrinks slightly with the smidgeon of distance covered to his front door, then he disappears inside, in the unlit confines of his home.

Narrator
"I know that, whatsoever God doeth, it shall be for ever: nothing can be put to it, nor any thing taken from it: and God doeth it, that men should fear before him."

MEDIUM on Narrator picking fruits, weary, busy, reaping a good harvest.

MEDIUM on Slaves working orchard with Narrator.  He has many full baskets of fruit.   The orchard is alive with activity, as the fruits are harvested.

Narrator
"That which hath been is now; and that which is to be hath already been; and God requireth that which is past."

LONG Interior foyer POV on open door, dust blowing across the sandy ground of the dooryard, desolate-the opposite of the fecund, bustling orchard.

Narrator
"I said in mine heart, God shall judge the righteous and the wicked: for there is a time there for every purpose and for every work."

CU on hand picking fruit.  The hand removes the fruit leaving the dangling stem from the tree as our center of vision.

Narrator
"I said in mine heart concerning the estate of the sons of men, that God might manifest them, and that they might see that they themselves are beasts.  For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no preeminence above a beast: for all is vanity.  All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again."

MEDIUM on a big gathering of people in the house, a party, perhaps for our purposes a celebration of the harvest.  People in all colors of tunics gather about under torchlight, nibbling on items and drinking.  They talk and talk, and laugh-some shaking, convulsing in the jubilation of whatever is said.

CU on Stern Face of Narrator, from the corner, watching his guests, at an understanding, but not necessarily approving or reproaching them, but certainly not participating.

Narrator
"Wherefore I perceive that there is nothing better, than that a man should rejoice in his own works; for that is his portion: for who shall bring him to see what shall be after him?"

MEDIUM on Azalea, a woman of about 40, very pretty, presentable, like a fancy bouquet of flowers on the table of a wealthy family.  Her face is stern, set, belying that all her charm is in her appearance.  She stares seriously to the right of our POV.