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.