of the glamorous and shiddle-glittered and the remarkable plainness

Nothing glamorous or shittle-glittered of Saturday morning, whatsoever.

Sunday in the morning, a warmish morning for November ramalamming around town for Pepsi(Panthers' gameday, the fast food for my constitutional). The kind of so-bright, sun hanging near the line of sight, half-consciousness of early-ness: I could write books, poetry, bumper stickers.

Love the blank-faced promise of starting a new day, but in yesterday's shoes, with yesterday's win-loss record, but not elseways beholden to yesterday at all.

The remarkable plainness of these last few: 

What has, was, is and will be again: people in deficiencies always, chasing those either when at leisure or giving over their very existence and other causes towards that end. 

The weather came to the fore as a bright, happy thing and spoke in even, sweet syllables about the best of the year, the best of the month. And if we couldn't have rain, we could at least have sunshine and shortsleeves. It was the post harvest spring of the end of discontent and, as stated elsewhere, the lack of mercy.

Even as we lay waste to our lives in the sacking of time, the trading off of so many things for our hours, we approach, contend, contest all these deficiencies to achieve equilibrium, for the sake of our well-being and for no other cause: not teasing one's balls, clipping one's eyelashes, dancing for a drunken mob, or the bearing and tending of children. Eudaimonia.

Finished off Joseph Campbell's book on Bliss. His most insightful comments were integrating psychologist Adler's epistemology into a useful, applicable statement of the meaning of life. Mythologies. One's own mythology, the myth one lives, the ideal one seeks--from Adler's power, Jung's individuation, to the superego, id, and ego. The "I know this already" obvious/oblivious quality of unrealized unconscious predictors/prediliction, we know and we do not know: we may have been controlled by that whatnot, and yet it never saw the light of day nor the spotlight of the mind, and we could never point towards it, not knowingly, even if we went 360 degrees firehosing our fingers at all under the sun.

"I know this already".

Because I was there, I know--but did I accumulate all at one time, or did I used my mixing blades, refractory lenses, graph paper and filter through my trivial desires and trivial notions towards something that was unrecognizable, untrue, and otherwise impossible?

It was a good story though.

Looking through my flipbook, I encountered tulips, regret, a nice story from a different age that in hindsight was never really so nice at all, but have been so in that microwave carton of my own coconut. It was a mile marker sign, one of those green signs one simply passes without a second glance, but in 2024, was sort of rejiggered into a very different, and no less distinct animal.

One could remember remembering.

it had "....pulled something that snared our art-ting and perversely abuse it into capitulation; we thusly make it sheepish to flee from our brutish intention. We take up the repulsive, the terrible and to the beautiful we spit our quesions, to the extent were some hidden aspect as wretched as ourselves, and if not, the critic goes to work."

"affectionate strays, we're on the fringe of the crowd like debris, sediment of some inward collapse--and looking dour in spirit, because we are dour in spirit. We do not sing or dance."

One could forget forgetting.

Tulips of the flipbook, and slowly luke-warming milk at the elbow.

One could brush the surface of complacency, but to delve beneath that surface is to realize it was never there: metonyms and antonyms, the Abbots and the Newmans.

My good thing was doing a redux of the Sunday night leg of the Wagon Train Universal Western hit parade. All at the push of a button: I've said more than once, that it is good living, nothing to be proud of, but an object of joy, to have my good thing at the click of a button.

I was telling a story about a sequence of relays, breadcrumbs, deuces, scat along the highway of one's life. Individuation, and aforementioned scrapbooking: we could either feel or remember, but never both at once. One is Wally West, and the other The Flash, cataclysm ensues if their polarity encounters each of itself.

I cannot, even at pains, dispel the "quiet desperation" of the Southern Bapist with zen. Simile and metaphor nearly makes it the inscrutable, multifarious parables of one Jesus Christ, being great advice, but not useful for most of the bunch. I can admire the embittered industriousness of said, and ironically wonder to myself if they hadn't discovered it themselves, or was it art imitating life?

Think of Alabamians selling gamefish to overcome their tax burdens; the tip of the arrow bounced off their skulls. "Pull a denari from its mouth, Peter." Or yet, self-pick in the orchard, one price for however much one plucks, not unlike an all-you-can-eat; I'd think it was something on the order of giving migrant harvest workers native-level wages, but it's all so very interpretive, Jesus's stories.

Smiles: tulips in the flipbook. Unsmiles: tulips in the flipbook.

Applewaithe v Cunningham; October to November.

"Contained within the lights and darknesses of our age modern, we have not in fact so much glanced the bottom: at bottom we find our truest most unadulterated person, perhaps: for it is an academic question that life's participants cannot take up with any accuracy while they are in the curve of the sphere. It is much like the great ship: one does not but ponder the hull of the great ship from within, and from without one is constituent to the musings in re delights within. Whether a myriad or the shortest straw, one does from one's vantage point, this writer and your Humble Narrator supposes.

The snows from such vantage points are not more than our own questions, I wot, and within the light of that newfangled age are our only condescending of any sort of doubt. In the parlance of Cassius Cunningham, "people who care about stuff are all GAY"; one's expectations need not be closer or farther than they appear. And yet, objects may be very much indeed nearer than the eyes convince.

Of course, one only speaks from one's own experiences, and what impurtinences were pointed his way, one does not bother to spend their wonderment.

Thought, of course, is the truest light, in the forests of the night: that axefell scalpular instrumentation that shows man the lay of the land, and provides the incite of providing sight to the soul. From tortured echoes to the finery of the eyeglass screws of the the thinking instrument do we sit so abridged from second to second. My friend is just that top ruffle that is preserved for polite company: one could take it or leave it, the suds of root beer, or worse still, the worm in the tequila.

all of that, and more, from a simple concept: reason is the shining light that man wields in this world."

It lay of the leather covering of his desk, and I wondered if Applewaithe intended a bit for public consumption or in fact had simply emptied his brain of all the askew pieces to the purpose of revisiting at another time. He was quite renowned for his taking of ethnhick restaurants, yoga pants models, finding ways to repurpose common objects as sources of gratification: what he was not known for was the unfolding of his mind.

Al Green, bitches.

As all in the environ turned an unassuming, inviolate lifeless white, I reasoned such there was importune hopelessness in the crowd, and being a rust-caked terry of stubbornness , I was at pains to address that, before any in distance, and indeed, all the heavens and the earth. In the choked distance, there was the trudge spoken of, some 4-5 days of rain--but damn did it--and further aridity in the manner that the tomatoes, late-year extras that they were, would not, could not, and otherwise refused to ripen.

Sitting on a log, eye'ing the weather.

Sleeping soundly in the oblivion of time, October faded to black and November edged its way nearer and nearer into view. Our warmest of that elapsed period was three days before the nearest edge, and the coldest the said nearest edge itself. Grateful spates of dryness and rain on the periphery, dryness and rain, dryness and rain, from mudpits to dust devils--all that livelong day.