Kurdaitcha Construction

 

Orange tape, cranes, destroying the landscape for another phallic behemoth that profits few and costs many.  Surveyors on Hole 17, Richmond Hill, aren’t there to plant more trees, zoning.  Zoning out, succeeding at boredom, in the board room, another PowerPoint™ meeting takes place:

“Envision this:” she starts, attempting to impress a group of male colleagues like a well-dressed whore. “3 acres, prime real estate, stripped bare – denuded, levelled, and then… domes!” with pause for effect.

“I’m getting a massive erection!” said the president sincerely, getting attention, “It may be an eyesore, but it’ll get more looks being there which is better for the bottom-line.”

Buckminster Fuller’s communist/feminine geodesics fail to be ‘tried and true.’  Calm me, calm me, commie, can’t we all just get along and share a blanket and a supreme ideology?

A problem with stock markets are that investors are essentially glorified gamblers who desire to stack the odds in their favor, and if, looking back at historical precedent, it can be found that profit was proven to exist in a certain place and modality, the importation of said modality for supposed guaranteed profit trumps all other considerations. 

At least one guy in the boardroom supports getting 3 domes to try it out, but will not voice an opinion that dissents the established worldview of the Russian piss enthusiast, his boss, the one who signs the paychecks (digitally, distantly), that pays for his desirable condominium in midtown, the heart like a fist of it all. He doesn’t love it, but imagines someone will. He imagines some dime will be gullible enough to swipe right on Tinder®, and then with the right lines, a few drinks, and mood lighting, she will fail to discern his shortcomings until it is too late and she becomes emotionally invested like the gullible chick she is and he will get all the dome he wants.  He comes to finishing touches. She puts him in her mouth.  He teaches her a thing or two. She will learn to keep her opinions to herself. He continues to fantasize about the size of his new place, the location, the amenities, the luxuries, his accrued account balance, and the amount of sex he’ll be having because of it. As of now he’s only pulling sixes and sevens, basic bitches he looks at with disgust like his weak-willed mother.  There’s some philanthropic fellatio, but no call backs, just another stepping-stone he thinks as he StairMaster®s the gym, staring off into space with his Spotify Technology S.A. Airpod™ mix blaring crap EDM.  Tedium, ‘getting his steps in,’ a modern phrase for efficiency fiends.  Modern pedometers, Bluetooth® cock-rings give a more accurate reading bouncing on the dangle. 

A spring chicken choked for a clear mind and protein, down at the Tyson® production facility, a concentration camp for heathen hens, Sally Sue dumps a tray full of gibbets into the dog-food receptacle and replaces the plastic bin back on the end of the row after chucking the last few chunks into the mass grater, grinder, and processor. Dreaming of the big city, sick of these backwards backwoods clowns who spit, shoot, and take seconds without asking.

Many sell themselves into slavery for security, identifying part-heartedly with an occupation that pays some foreign energy conglomerate for their national gridiron, oil-wells, and mining equipment.  Protesters in Chile burnt down the headquarters of “Enel Chile, a subsidiary of Italian utility Enel…” harvesting income inequality, destabilizing by claiming rights to resources halfway across the globe, because apparently Italia est perfecta and has no problems at home.  A father who travels for work to escape/support his wife and kids who increasingly know luxury, but lack guidance.  Generations pass, kindred burgeon, now concentrated in cities, fail to look one another in the eye, fail to familiarize oneself with another, separated in spirit yet sharing common ancestry.

Living in the moment, a Brazilian dumptruck driver dumps his payload of plastic bagged waste into the Amazon river-basin.  Living in the moments to come, generations will have to rectify, reconcile, and regenerate the damages. Do we think we can get away with this bullshit philosophy? An atheist suicide reincarnation-victim born again against his will in more blood and less spirit (as is his Dharma) struggles with the fact that God doesn’t care that he wanted out.  A consciousness irreparably diminished to a lower order may continue to descend at his or her own animal peril since slaughter remains in vogue at the abattoir.  What does it mean to ‘live in the moment?’ For many it’s a McDonald’s cup or wrapper out the car window. Bye-bye! They go back to their litter of filthy children without a chance they thrust on society like a baby-tossing gypsy-crook, bent on profiting from a baby’s ability to evoke sympathy. I’d let that future criminal crash and protect my wallet!

 

Had a dream where Lakota/Blackfoot tribe hybrid were on my grandfather’s farm seeking through-fare.  My father was being a royal asshole to them.  There were three male representatives of these people painted black from the neck down with red on their faces and hair shorn on the sides and long on top pulled back with feathers being very peaceful and friendly.  I immediately felt a sort of kindred bond with these guys who seemed relatively normal, at least non-threatening and were just asking for passage after my grandfather who normally granted them the consideration had recently passed.  I was just a child in the dream and subject to my dad’s authority, or at least it was obvious I had no real say in this matter as it represented a legal issue I had no immediate authority on in terms of rights to move.  I guess once my dad made up his mind about these gentle-men he became increasingly irascible toward them for being there, displaying a scram or get lost mentality.  I, for my part, wanted to be clear to them that I did not share my father’s beliefs.  I had been dressed up in some stupid golf-shirt I was pulling on to signal how ridiculous I thought this all was.  I got in the passenger seat of a car and as my dad drove off he nearly hit them on purpose and when I said something he started wailing on me, then I woke up.

 

Seeds of slaughter sewn out to pasture
a constant reminder of life’s fragility
and how blessed are we who are intact?

As a child, cardboard cube, sunny day
Thinking, outside, the refrigerator box
Being crushed by a 3’x3’ sky.

 

The thought of tainted tap-water gives me the TDS willies. Uncle in my head about kidney stones, and Doug about the spiritual connection to the food we eat (if you’re sensitive to that sort of stuff). Tonight, like many nights lately, I have become fearful and anxious for my life and I believe it has something to do with abstention from tobacco products for whole days now, but it feels as though my entire life were caving in, on the verge of collapse, structurally, corporeally!  My heart, my brain, my kidneys, and probably other things are about to go on strike and pull out of the accord just because they got used to something called wealth and forgot about a little something called liberty, so with a lump sum it popped out of his chest like “Alien” and before long all the lambs were silent after a series of cut-short crescendos a’bleat.  Don’t worry mom, dad, this is just aphasia.  Wouldn’t it have been weird if that were the last line I wrote?  Dinosaurs are weirder.  (“Cut too much slack,” jawed a yokel, downed a tequila, and ran amok.)  Edible marijuana details my inadequacies to be gone over slowly, one by one, second by excruciating second over-throne.  Nicotine with-drawl sucks.  I think I have been developing sleep apnea.  Hanging out with people in their twenties who have been hooked and accept their hooked-ness, which is somehow tolerable as a youth, yet degrading, accelerating the aging process with all its aches, pains, weaknesses, and malignant growths that might be avoided with a more moderate diet of substances and a more substantial diet of wholesomeness.  Lame, I know!

A pharmacist (@thanatophobiapharmaceuticals) is a salesperson trained to transact impartially.  Dirk believes that since we are all marketed to, our personal preferences determine who we are vs. (as I believe) that we continually make decisions that are more or less mathematically sound, in a way that our actions are more or less harmonious with not only the nature that surrounds, but also with the nature that lies within.  As I pull another long strange hair from a fleece blanket that was my grandmother’s I look back upon a life that was a least in part determined by the circumstances surrounding conception itself as a preferential treatment of this over that objective reality.  As a gardener chooses what seeds to sow, so too does a person, when meditating, list.  If a master were to perfect himself for a decade, it would be as if an eternity had passed, however determinable the duration, objectively.

As my shadow swirls in growing grass, my butt gets wetter and things deteriorate, decisively.
As my shadow swirls in growing grass, I sharpen my eyes.  My breath I purloin.  I take the entire volume as an expanse, and I go red in the face with sun blisters.  My breath I purloin.  If the Treasury Department were to tax, it would send out a hitman to suffocate me like someone in a prison-cell who didn’t kill himself.
As my shadow swirls in growing grass, people drive by in fully automated automobiles and some of them wave, until, after a while, they see me as a statue wielding infinity possessed by blunt forces as well as traumatic experiences that stupid children still decide to go near.  A sleeping dragon in the East, what could disturb this genderless entity whose throne is all wet?  A fanciful region in the West celebrates Bacchus despite an angrily jealous god’s immolation.
As my shadow swirls in growing grass, neighborhood cats come give me a sniff and take a few nibbles.  As they eat my body and drink my blood, I refuse to flinch, despite the nerve-impulses, despite the nervous input, despite the festering infections, despite the rashes, bug-bites, headache, and ringing-in-the-ears.  Despite all that, nothing.  Teeth like tweezers that burn as they pull, why would anyone choose to do so little so save self from agnosticism?  “Allahu Akbar!” our master hears from Mecca he faces, “You believe that shit?” he hears from the bar behind.  Not knowing what to think, he focuses on nothingness intently.

 

Kalsarikanni Coddiwomple

 Had a dream where I was at the entrance to a banquet-hall where AA members were celebrating sobriety and I was there joking about skipping steps and heading out to grab a drink, but when I went out to look for the bar I entered into a room where a small group of people dressed in black were grieving – then I woke up.

The Nietzsche quote, “One repays a teacher badly if one always remains nothing but a pupil,” has been running through my head.  Don’t deify gatekeepers (Kafka).

 

Observation without qualification is better than saying something without meaning.

 

I mist my plants.  They mist me too!

 

In a dream, two schools, divided by sex, but united by an ice-dam.  Metaphor for my relationships?  I imagine perhaps a lifestyle obtained by moving further north would be the only way to sustain a marriage for someone of my temperament.  Too much heat makes me dumb and lethargic, but it sure do feel nice, natural narcotic.

In a much longer, more intricate and vivid dream, there was a kind of zombie take-over (a revelation).  It started with prey outsmarting predators. I watched a struggle with a maggot vs a spider where the maggot kept inexplicably escaping (inexplicable because there are no words in nature that yet describe this type of antithetical interaction).  Agile mice were evading clumsy hawks.  I was home where I grew up.  These incredible ostrich were showing up, feeding brazenly on dirt outside a front window close to the house.  They looked deformed like B-horror movie puppets.  Then these deformed people started showing up, not maimed per se, but ugly, slow, and lumpy.  I wanted to hate or be afraid of them, but there were no grounds other than their external appearance and the fact that they seemed to show up everywhere and were encroaching personal/private property barriers.  They were in our house. They were nice enough?  I was trying to play a computer-game, but I couldn’t get the program to run as I had recalled.  I became a part of the medical research community, CT-scanning lumpy brains, (serving their ill-proportioned medical needs that changed day-to-day.)

 Man senses a machine’s ejaculation, its output, the heat it gives off, and its silicon scents.  It feels unhealthy and unnatural, a cheap thrill.  Simple machines – a lever, a pulley, a wheel & axel, a combustion engine, fumes, exhaust, cement mixers, more and more!  When the masses implore ‘simplicity’ we provide not ‘the simple life’ but simplifications, which are merely simple-fictions.  Stories that we tell ourselves, (our mythos) how much easier life is these days what with the strong or weakened economy and standard of living, but what does that mean to the individual whom has his or herself become simplified?  A man who deals in averages, who believes in the damned lies, is doomed.  “How does my standard of living compare to that of my neighbour?” one may ask oneself.  Look inward instead.

“This Buddha motherfucker renunciation bullshit!”

Another bird in the monastery!

“The superior worth of simplicity of life, the enervating and demoralizing effect of the trammels and hypocrisies of artificial society, are ideals which have never been entirely absent from cultivated minds since Rousseau wrote…” Mill, J.S., On Liberty. p48. 

 

I want to help the lumpy zombies instinctively, we find ways in which it is mutually beneficial.  These lumbering corporations should have only paid a visit, but instead they plopped right down and somehow their lumps plop-off all over the landscape.  Each groundbreaking-ribbon-cutting a curse and every birth a poverty.  They consume the public’s utility!  This monolithic structure sits for an hour at a time on the toilet doom-scrolling, raiding the medicine-cabinet, and running the shower!  Before long, they’re writing laws, are in the Cabinet, and are running the show!  It’s constitutional!  These inversely crippled “…human beings who are nothing but a big eye or a big mouth or a big belly or anything at all that is big,” (Nietzsche) are the in-group we want out! (But at this point it would probably be too big of a mess to clean up and no one knows what might happen to the corpses if they were to say reanimate?)  They’re not even Christian!  They have no notion of death in life’s perfection, the resurrection, or the life of the world to come!  They live for a gaudy tumescence this year with festoons!  They come in piece from Mother Russia.  

Madness of a Familiar Nature

It is “cool” to be “sick”. The words we use matter! In the workplace, it is common for a negative emotion to be expressed with a kind of humor that’d be pitiable if it weren’t polite to make it seem laughable. In the schoolyard, “kill yourself,” angry mania brought from home in order to dominate the environment. “Here comes Bulldozer!”

“I don’t believe in anything. God is dead. I’m so sick.”

“Yo, Doja, don’t ya know that by defining God and yourself in such simple terms, you’re really limiting your ability to have many a complex thought process that might be conducive especially in an educational setting. If you know it all already, why are you here at all, in general?”

“My mom’s a total bitch.”

“Let’s explore that!” goes the peer-mediator.

“What’d you say about fucking my mom?”

AR-Thwack.

After Doja’s judgment, there already seems to be intrinsically known about his gender-normative parents, neither married nor divorced. The bully is bullied at home and surviving something threatening in a certain way that is reflective of its harsh environment. The scales of justice skew definitively. There is much to be abhorred about life in general, the way we live, the flies, and the trash that should have been on the curb a week ago! Fie! Chores! Angrily eyeing the giant mess in the corner, (dead elephant in a funeral home,) the corpse that won’t remove itself is stinking up the joint! Dead man walking from the couch to the fridge for another soft-serving of Valveeta® cheesecake casserole.

“Outta the way, Billy!” Fat-man trips over his stupid son. It is a total mistake to have tripped in the positive, but Billy is the total mistake (in the negative,) so he projects his own lack of agility on the one productive fuck that’ll make him famous one day for all the wrong reasons. “Why don’t you take out the trash?”

“Why don’t you?!” Billy Doja claps back, big enough now in middle-school to have developed a sort of thickened human carapace that allows protections for smart-talk and the eventual consequences thereof. He could dodge at least the first set of aggressive maneuvers from his fat Dad, becoming more and more predictable as he slowed down and Doj’ Coin™ gained a type of momentum beyond the merely physical. Fiat! "Pay me!"

“Don’t you talk back to me young man! You know you’re not innocent! You see these peels and wrappers on the floor? Pick ‘em up!”

This would have actually been a fairly productive conversation in a contentious yet literate household. What was actually expressed were a series of grunts of the “F-U,” variety that conveyed little to no meaning, thus garbage not only filled the air, but it remained rotting in the corner as well. If only it weren’t such an apt metaphor for the situation itself, expressed as if through unrecognizable other-worldly device! Watching “Ancient Aliens™” on the History® Channel™, Billy receives commercial programming and a modern television dinner, chicken Tendies™ from Uber® Eats™! Since the house was dark (with the only light coming from what used to be called the squawk-box,) the driver couldn’t see the address easily and missed the turn. Excessive time spent in a Styrofoam container causes chicken-bread to became soggy, meat flaccid, and an accelerated process of evaporation and condensation begins a rudimentary form of refrigeration. So it presented like many a chicken TV Dinner of yesteryear with the main difference being that the wax paper is now checkered-red, there are no more vegetable attempts, and it costs as much as a valet-service should to a commoner in a saturated marketplace. If only someone would clean the microwave, it would be possible for the household to be less impoverished! However, now Billy sees anything coming out of that appliance as gross, despite the fact that the restaurant that they order from rarely changes the oil in the deep-fryer, “out of sight, out of mind” is the motto as Billy feeds without looking at the food itself directly. He reaches to the ranch-corner as a cow is levitated within eyeshot of Stonehenge before the Griswold’s toppled it in 1985. Isn’t real-reality dull in comparison to all that action!? But there is a growing numbness, result of nervous system disconnect, result of nervously disconnecting from the home-theatre system right before Mom walks in with a Winston-Salem cigarette.

What was the trope she liked to be choked with? Crazy needs to be explained. Does craziness have nooks and crannies like an English muffin? Eating is rational, but she refused eating a consistent diet at regular intervals, digestive system fucked up probably from all the cigarettes she denied herself smoking in close sequence between bouts of derision. She would make promises to her husband after a bad fight to not drink or smoke (at least as much!) anymore, break them, and then deny the act that was still on her breath. That was all in the past, tacit acceptance established that conditions are bent toward further deterioration. She’d eat the occasional DD® biscuit, but beyond that, she got her energy from the simple sugars typically found in a cocktail mix and adrenaline, a dehydrated-rehydrated powder-based smorgasbord. “The problem with this type of diet is that it requires as much or more artificial energy input to produce the final food-product as the energy the consumer achieves, calorie-wise,” goes an economist trying to prove some sort of neo-Marxist point in an obscure publication that sits dusty on a bookshelf, inadvertently collected by this hoarding-type aspect of her psychological disorder-matrix.

Dear dominatrix, you'd catch more flies with honey!

Why don't you whip me up a fat stack of pancakes

rub it in my face, shove it in my mouth, and my Hey!

Does craziness have a home? A tacky “Bless This Mess” antique-store find adorns an eave. She scratches her recently pegged ass and breathes a thick sigh of relief. “Safety,” she thinks as she locks the door and greets the dog whose kidneys work overtime concentrating urine since the stress of stoically holding his bladder is less than the stress of the consequences of relieving himself on the kitchen floor. He still sheds everywhere, which he can’t help, but it is largely consequence of the stress of holding urine, which she hasn’t seemed to have caught onto yet, seeing the shedding as merely consequential to breed itself, not symptomatic of an underlying condition. Animals are intercessional. They bear witness, but limited by lack of speech, are kept to secrets. Deep down the dog wants to rip her throat out, but deeper down he just wants her to just get better. The bladder thing he’s learned to tolerate by getting hot and panting. It is possible to control certain autonomic nervous-system functioning through intense meditative-visualization.

And this blessed mess still provides some low-level of certainty that the outside world could be worse. But what if it actually isn’t all that bad? Wouldn’t that the worst type of poverty be a lack of realization about the nature of reality itself? Revenge is also a type of pornography, beyond being simply a cold dish. Those enjoying revenge, most believe themselves slighted, but (Capital C) Craziness knows she was, at least once, irreparably, and it wasn’t her fault, being too young to defend herself from certain onslaughts. Subsequently witnesses denied her validity, thus the liar’s paradox of learned behavior. Saying “every man is a liar” exposes a limitation of language itself, a laziness from lack of elaboration, and a paradox. Do you believe me to be true? Am I even (who or) what (I say) I am? Do you trust my existence? What is not an illusion? What I feel feels real, but like numbers, my feelings could also be imaginary, floating, or part of some other integral set? A quantum field receiver sits, gathering dust, in a drawer. When one is forced into a situation outside one’s control, one becomes resentful, and resentfulness is also crazy, but supposedly resentfulness can be managed through stratagem. Craziness may be alleviated through medicaments if Catholic or diet and exercise if Protestant. “Elimination diet should be employed occasionally as well as a routine of sitting quietly while otherwise unoccupied,” says a line in a self-help book (its radical author remains anonymous). “Think about what you’ve done!” goes mother as she thrusts poor Scruff’s nose into micturition.

“This is certainly a fine vintage,” thinks poor, abused Scruff about his piss and shit, “peaches!”

She loves her dog’s perverse complicity.

Anger is dark-siding, sliding into a perverse reverie. It is the way that it feels good or is attractive (beauty sleep?) to stay in bed longer than necessary to feel rested, even though this anti-activity is also symptomatic of a depression. Doom-scrolling, stalking, and otherwise only paying half-attention to her own thoughts, unaddressed, O Mother. Doja, blackout curtains' potential fully realized, is still under covers at 10 A.M.

Blessings of the Early Morning, or, Matutinal Maturity

 

“Now, nothing M. Achille can do will surprise us: because he’s a crazy loon!” Sartre, J.P., Nausea. p 69.

The Statue of Liberty, the verdigris cynosure of New York Harbor by Eiffel and Bartholdi is a grand symbol, (a nod to Coloso de Rodas) that welcomes ships to harbor with a reminder that, like the contours of the Lady, liberty consists of strength and grace. She weathers all storms stoically.

I’m still compelled to contact Jameson® (press that glass to my lips), who still occupies cogitations, free real-estate.  Resentfulness is unhealthy.  It is also hard to avoid.  Treatments entreat, spirits call upon me to express my anger whose outlet is a thousand miles away.  If I give my anger a name and personality separate from my own identification with myself, is this emotional suppression?  Do I oppress myself as consequence?  Think about it this way (from notes):  I hated when she texted me about her boredom, that she lacked creativity, but that she believed her own thoughts.  A real snare!  If I were as intrusive as to feign mind-reading, would the mind not recoil?  Active listening is the only scientific approach to understanding another.  Even then, “…the heart of kings is unsearchable” (Proverbs 25:3). A mythos may be archetypal, but it is either adopted or phasic.  We choose what is wished to be believed about oneself or it is a product of our circumstantial nature, an elicited response?

Foreign emotion, trained like a Pavlovian fear-response to the death of a N. Korean tyrant, if native, a true self self-preservative (pickle Rick pickle Locke’d (between a salt and a briny place)).  Am I a hypocrite for abandoning myself?  Just because I don’t reflect in one particular mirror anymore?  When one’s existence is reduced to a case of rubber rods, remote controls, and cutlery, existence itself begins to lose its meaning, essence of one’s entelechy.

The city streets are a fritillary!  Bob, divorcee after 35 years (to put his kids through college) puts sufferings’ durational amounts into perspective.  A denial of self, selflessness is a virtue, but so is being fully embodied! Six years of resentment that follows, but finally getting to see Genesis, still a great show even if Phil Collins needs a seat now.  Bob, retirement age himself, is finally going on an Alaskan and then a Magellan-esque cruise of his dreams with his 88-year-old dad.  He’s got a girlfriend in Maryland now (the dog!) he calls up nightly and visits monthly.  She’s a high-school sweetheart who used to be serious, but now she’s fun!

"Daddy?"

"Yes, son?"

"What does regret mean?"

"Well, son, a funny thing about regret is that better to regret something you have done, than to regret something you haven't done. And by the way, if you see your mom this weekend, be sure to tell her SATAN, SATAN, SATAN!!!"

Forms of enslavement, sicknesses all!
Vicariously male, vicariously female, sexually
explicit, role-playing gender transmorphic
munchausen by proxy. Disease vectors all!

Hijabs, masks of modesty, faces inform but they also belie. It seems either hypocritical or ironic of the French government to, one year, ban the hijab in public and the next year to mandate masks for public health? Doesn’t understanding of life and death come from belief? Is there not always some outside entity compelling our forward progress? Modern man places much faith in the grossness of what can be seen. A more modern microscope or telescope and existence might justly explain itself! Again, “As the heavens for height and the earth for depth, So the heart of kings is unsearchable” (Proverbs 25:3 (wholly this time)).

Take it off, slow.

Put the gun down.

Tell me what to

Wear again, Kim.

Does the ruling-class not always view the unwashed, unruly, and illiterate masses a threat? As it was in the Dark Ages, Bible withheld (for fear of the Devil’s interpretation), academia thrives on relative ignorance.

The administration of effective medicine has always been a ceremonial procedure, beyond substance itself.
Vaccination: Catholicism::Alternative therapies: Protestantism
SARS-CoV-2 aka COVID-19 (Δ,Ο) is merely a comorbidity, an usher to the gates.
Death is a hand dealt by the seer.
Death is a mask worn by the grim.
Death is a wage owed an err-er (graciously withheld).
Do we not all suffer somewhat differently and somehow the same?
Proximally, the pox, hexed upon us all, was spread.
Unquarantinable, the spirit of revolution, spun again.
The centrifugal force of prayer punishes the wicked like bad blood and elevates the righteous like good serum.
Most notions are subject to reinterpretation.
Character building:: a growth process:: a tumescent erection? (Check out my linear thinking!)

Forensic scientists test a pearly secretion. The priesthood of Vaccine Vatican, Wuhan Labs have been injecting their protein spikes into children as young as five, the sick fucks! Meanwhile, in merry old England, Prince Andrew enjoys the fruits of nepotism despotically. Ghislaine Maxwell sketches a court reporter, marked in her eyes for voodoo threats. Once one feels well-protected, insulated, and invincible, one feels powerful. Surrounded by the wealthiest, most powerful, and influential people in the world, at a soiree to celebrate their own charitability, a billionaire leans over a young former sweatshop employee, saved for her potential, and demonstrates affection carnally (ala “Salò”). In a “Twist of Fate” by Olivia Newton-John(son), Maxwell shows the courts, Channel 5 News, her butthole. Turns out she had been playing “Hooker with a Penis” by Tool all along! Then she stands up confidently, shoulders back and gives a sort of, ‘who among us doesn’t…’ type speech involving slathering unction and finger up assholes before she finally sits down once the jury is moved to tears, she sees, but for all the wrong reasons. She is sentenced to be drawn and quintupled on a pentagram for good measure.



The gall of the Gaul to believe that economics, environmentalism, and freedom of choice were all modern concerns! I’m having trouble at work and the post-due rent notice for my house in Oklahoma City is giving me anxiety. I also just smoked for the first time in a few days so my stress is through the roof (by choice!)! Am I wrong in taking a principled approach? The world living in accordance with society is a divergent phenomenon increasingly. Participating in traditions that harm the earth (more than farming) the very nature of which we are all privy to by simply breathing. Am I being flaky? Am I procrastinating? Is this writing merely a masturbatory gesture? Does it make a better person of me? Certainly society cannot care if it remains unseen. Must I engage before lower limits are set on my credit? How much do I care about my social credibility? Me worry?! I’m an honesty machine! I’m not making you suck it, bitch! Do you not have a choice in the matter? The shit that comes to the top of your head is vile. Can a certain woman be taught to not be a whore? The impasse is that she both would enjoy being smacked around and she would also use it against the abuser who’d hit her, thus the situation is absurd. Refraining from violence is also a choice.

What was the trope she liked to be choked with? Crazy needs to be explained. Does craziness have nooks and crannies like an English muffin? Eating is rational. Does craziness have a home? With padded walls. Revenge is also a type of pornography, beyond being simply a cold dish. Those enjoying revenge the most believe themselves slighted, but craziness knows she was, at least once, irreparably, and it wasn’t her fault, being too young to defend herself from certain onslaughts. Subsequently witnesses denied her validity, thus the liar’s paradox of learned behavior. When one is forced into a situation outside one’s control, one becomes resentful, and resentfulness is also crazy, but supposedly resentfulness can be managed through stratagem as craziness may be treated or alleviated through medicaments. (Music is an indication of kept society and music is an indication of what society we keep.)  Did craziness teach herself to be unchaste? Does craziness reach into perpetuity like Sunday’s crossword, forever online or squirrelled away? Without meditation, ignorance, and craziness willfully, she will not! Willful ignorance is close-mindedness (not fun!). How does the word of God diverge from what is democratic? How is plastic in the ocean not apocalyptic? Craziness knows the third eye is real and suffers a type of irreparable blindness. Woe unto our increasingly litigious society! Craziness is quick to anger and prone to trauma, resisting arrestment and suffering the consequences. The individual, in control of one’s own thought process, chooses in the moment to write, but where do the words come from that they somehow all make sense to the reader of books in context? Growth is cellular division; unchecked, it could be cancerous, but does life grow like a tumor? Craziness’ nausea grows, watching herself die, desirous of slowing the fuck down, but she cain’t.

"Brother Cain, how could you?"

"Favoritism is bullshit."

"Then we agree!"

"No, we don’t, I want to be able to do what you do, but I cain’t. It’s who I am. I was born to be resentful and am thus cursed with resentment. I keep getting sent back to Earth to toil and slave. These is nothing to show for my earnings since I dissipate as I would my suffering and my greatest desire is that unchecked, unmitigated vanity when it comes down to it in the end, but wouldn’t it feel nice now to be deemed worthy of certain favor deserved of the Heaven-bound? What pleasure! What great delight it must be to… usurp?"

Thwack.

Wind inherited, a suffering new Satan roams the desert alone with imaginary friends and embodied acquaintances interacted with as if illusory.

Yesterday I had a dream where I was in a car with two cops and I was not driving, not one of them, nor was I their prisoner. We clipped a van in front of us, sent them spinning into a field. This van, once at rest, came back at us at suicidal speed, glanced the front of our car coming over an embankment, and completely flipped. The van must have been full because bodies and parts were being ejected and tumbling inside the crumbling chassis. I couldn’t look for more than a second, I woke up.

Is my craziness caring too much about someone who would ultimately betray me? She has already been married more than once and her resentment is contagious and it would ruin my life worse than COVID. I would rather die by natural causes than suffer unnaturally. What is artificial about my suffering? The name for my disease is my name because it’s not incurable lepidoptery! I mean, I love butterflies and all, I guess the thought never crossed my mind to engage in the activity of categorization, collection, and conservation of winged insects before? Save the bees! Even netting moths would be better than the research of Chiropterae that is observing the wife's guano!

What is responsibility? An existing pact or an agreement with existence itself. “If you wish to keep existing you’d better do as I say!” she’d threaten disagreeably. Philistinism remains thankless, and there is no arguing with an anti-intellectual, since words are, to them, meaningless. And as words, to them, bear little weight, they languish. Words convey nascence necessarily. Craziness wants to tell me ten more times how I suck and how much and how quickly she can find someone else to pay for her burnt bridges and other debts related to her clinical gephyrophobia.

“Don’t place that supportive structure anywhere NEAR me!” she’d yell. “I’ll support myself!” and then she’ll claim to not know what she was saying despite being a grown-ass adult.

“You understand that words being spoken convey definite meaning to the listener, correct? Or aren’t you listening?”

A Philistine, too vain to appear dumbfounded, gets angry instead. “You know what I meant!”

“I do!”

“No you don’t you lying ass, don’t! Don’t empathy, honesty, and TRUST mean anything to you!?”

“I thought I did! Honestly!”

“Well now you cain’t!”

Thwack.

“You motherfucker, you weren’t supposed to BLEED!”

She’d cry at the deceased, realizing a posteriori what should have been known a priori now that her troubles are ten-thousand fold, troubles that were making her crazy to begin with! Crying to a corpse, expecting more from it than a giant mess to have to clean up, is also craziness.

Regarding evolution, the word itself used to mean something literally along the lines of “to want/will/wish” (e/ex volere) and (e/ex volvere), “to roll/turn/trundle”. The word itself makes me think more of Tibetan Buddhist prayer wheels in a lengthy row as a monk passes his hands over each, sending them spinning as he walks by, than it does about birds becoming bees! Can dating exist in such a timeless place? Love is eternal, but is its eternality recognizable to a sexual fanatic? For too many, love is a momentary and fleeting gesture that imprints a sort of definition recognizable only to similarly traumatized individuals. Time is a concept that implodes into a moment when time once slowed to a standstill and everything was made apparent and from that moment on, I knew. I knew you were a cheat! I knew you were a liar! I knew you were no good! And you went ahead and justified yourself anyway! You became the monstrosity of my dreams, how dare you?



What was the last chance I took? I could ask myself that, but then I’d have to define chance! Chanciness, the ripper of my jacked dreams, wakes me matutinally. She’s the hot box to my Dutch oven. This morning, we attempt our face-to-face interaction-ritual with her back to me, and regard one another askance. Chanciness is iffy, touch-and-go, “Don’t poke the bear,” she’d threaten. This was her way of telling me she wanted to be left alone. But she was in my house in my bed, and it had been known, so it was no mystery that she was an imposition. She knew the score, and she was making me lose to her benefit. Chanciness is like the lottery, a tax for those who struggle with mathematics. Long-game loss-leaders have been tallied, Eric and Tommy with five each, Chris with twenty, and Bob with thirty-five years lost each to Chanciness. There is, like Craziness, no vaccination for risky-behavior (yet).