between the lips, down the throat, and in its time, exiting through that sweet donut dispenser

"They will begin by taking the State and the manners of men, from which, as from a tablet, they will rub out the picture, and leave a clean surface.  This is no easy task.  But whether easy or not, herein will lie the difference between them and every other legislator--they will have nothing to do either with individual or State, and will inscribe no laws, until they have either found, or themselves made, a clean surface.

They will be very right, he said.

Having effected this, they will proceed to trace an outline of the constitution?

No doubt.

And when they are filling in the work, as I conceive, they will often turn their eyes upward and downward: I mean that they will first look at absolute justice and beauty and temperance, and again at the human copy and will mingle and temper the various elements of life into the image of a man; and this they will conceive according to that other image, which, when existing among men, Homer calls the form and likeness of God.

Very true, he said.

And one feature they will erase, and another they will put in, until they have made the ways of men, as far as possible, agreeable to the ways of God?

Indeed, he said, in no way could they make a fairer picture."

Plato, The Republic

They were sitting as it were, in an AMC location, watching some TMNT(with that Paige, Casey, Master Splinter, Shredder, et al) or some such other of that nature, and all of the real world they were aware of was the shadow of their own heads on the bottom of the screen, that of himself and his peers, and those were the only elements of the world proper that encroached, elseways it ways that dreamtime held sway over all.

It was as it were, top-up bottom-down ideology, people that kicked against anything of organization, except for the one company in Middenorftino, anything of the usual kind that reeked of efficiency or was abundantly common, but they could be lulled by the muses, and beauty spoke many a dialect into even the most ignorant of ears.

"You have shown me a strange image, and they are strange prisoners.

Like ourselves, I replied; and they see only their own shadows..."

Plato, The Republic

You either carry over a to-do list from the next day, or make that to-do list the night before. I love hitting my Google Calendar the night before. It reinforces a sense of structure. But don't forget too, to include "whitespace" for brainstorming and inspiration. Mind inspiration isn't idle time, because a lot of that will come when you're busy, but make time to chase those leads, which is what inspiration is: a nexus of leads.

So she had been the world's oldest person at the ripe-old age of 118.  Now the oldest person is 117, and probably has a new goal for her life, that being to equal 118(her birthday is in March) or eclipse that.

Sour, sour mood this morning, a deflation of my usual optimism.  Thinking of my books, and how its sort of given to some that if you write a book, people would eventually read it. I published in 2013 and made, over the course of five years or so, the princely sum of about 4 dollars, during the whole time.

But think of that so regal self-absorbed optimistic/narcisistic assumption, like if you write a book, someone's gonna read it. I've disproven that, but I kinda got cursed on my efforts, with my father saying I would be the worst-selling author of all time.

Seems like so much of this stuff is just a gloriously crazy waste of time.

Maybe I'm trying to say, if I'm gonna live a long time, I gotta stop worrying about this stupid shit, stupid shit like this that does me not one iota of good--never has.

"Here is our little planet, chiefly occupied, to our view, in rushing round the sun; but perhaps found from another angle to fill quite another part in the cosmic scheme.  And on this apparently unimportant speck, wandering among systems of suns, the appearance of life and its slow development and ever-increasing sensitization; the emerging of pain and of pleasure; and presently man with his growing capacity for self-affirmation and self-sacrifice, for rapture and for grief.  Love, with it unearthly happiness, unmeasured devotion, and limitless pain; all the ecstasy, all the anguish that we extract from the rhythm of life and death.  It is much, really, for one little planet to bring to birth.  And presently another music, which some--not many perhaps yet, in comparison with its population--are able to hear.  The music of a more inward life, a sort of fugue in which the eternal and temporal are mingled; and here and there some, already, who respond to it.  Those who hear it would not all agree as to the nature of the melody; but all would agree that it is something different in kind from the rhythm of life and death."

-Evelyn Underhill, The Life of the Spirit and the Life of Today.

Quite as it were, though the spirit be the same as it ever was, we begin more and more to craft and customize the world around us, and some, as it were, propelled by forces beyond our comprehension, to "mingle the eternal and temporal".  Of which, no one has of yet plumbed the spiritual depths of Special Relativity, nor probed much of the nature of this little burgh of ants.

Of life and the human condition, there is not so much more than the material for which to quench us, to set onto our flaming bodies and starving minds.  But our minds starve still, as is the searching nature of man, the Original Sin, which may be caste in the same bag as the Desire To Know, for assuredly, man would open a Pandora's Box, time and again, just to see or experience what happened.  This was Schroedinger's Cat, that Uncertainty Principle, telling us that we just cannot keep away and keep our fingers out of that large existential pie, consequences be damned, forgotten and given no warrant.

"He has a craving which nothing in his material surroundings seems adequate either to awaken or to satisfy; a deep conviction that some larger synthesis of experience is possible to him."

-Evelyn Underhill, The Life of the Spirit and the Life of Today.

stepped into the world as one sipping from a cup? but nevertheless, a transitory sort of bird, coagulating between two junctures, at a pace, a happenstance plopped-down and push-pinned between several more determinate points.

It was Friday morning.

I un-knotted my colon, lost in thought in the outside air, to be sustained by pure clean air, and have those as it were, influence my thoughts; I was somewhere between Stunt Driver Gimble and Henry David Thoreau, with probably more Stunt Driver Gimble in my colon than without.

I was thinking as such that all news was not about the President, and I turned away to better my perspective, as I was not paid to generate content for a network, not fill so many hours a day with pointed perspectives for or against; I had the luxury to reserve my own judgement, as it were.

One could pay dearly for independence of mind, so to speak, in the modern age, particularly if he sought for it in the wrong corners, for indeed, it is not found without very often, but more or less consistently indwelling, sitting in between the ears, all the time.  Indeed, so much of that outside must be cast aside and did away with in order to actually mark a moment of silence, to not be plugged-in or reachable by the touch of a button.

They used to experiment on small animals by inducing stimuli at the touch of a button.

I was watching a program on the Akashic Record earlier, something of the mysticism, a sort of global consciousness that more learned men have hinted it, things like the collective unconscious, a kind of spiral symmetry prevailing across the human beans in the ether, how they all seem to approach and sense and theorize and then, even when it is unexpected, there are more than one set of hands to be found grasping for that new, novel, original thing.

Synchronicity.

Or, as Blake said darkly, "the Fearful Symmetry".  It was something only one with extra senses could pull off, to mine his thoughts from a few indefinite yet tantalizing words, and then, to find, enigmatically so, that it was not a new thought, but the pattern, the shadow of one's own prior thoughts, that Deja Vu that fingered insistently through the darkness of time and space to encapsulate and snapshot some un-bespoken moment in time in the reader's own life, even some 4 centuries later.

Indeed of the unseen transmissions, of the Akashic Record, Tesla said to know too much or much more in a given time than anyone, to seem to have advanced knowledge, to even do "wireless electricity", and him being one of the pooka, one of the touched of the Akashic Record?  Was his symmetry fearful, locked in patent wars with Thomas Edison?

I had caffeinated sweet beverages, and set down my "f*ck-all", and generally adjusting the bolts in my neck my looking at my own little space, the mindset, the attic of the old asylum, as it were, I finally had some unabbreviated television time.  My "f*ck-all" sat, like Matt Dillon's 45, for a few hours as I gathered-up my spleen, my unction, got a snoot-full of who I am, who the ancient Isrealites were, and then I found myself finishing the guy on tv's sentences, finishing the thought, as it were, going further ahead in his sermon notes for the greater truth of the piece, what they call "the Bridge of Interpretation" in hermeneutics.

Of that a "breach in the wall", which I had plugged with Kevin's sunburnt ginger hindparts, how he was there and not there at once, and there was such burned with fire, the Temple damaged, and such and so forth.  Even that, as Solomon would have said, had its time and place, and even the reign of an Anti-Christ according the St John would have its own marked time and place, and somewhere in all that hatred and killing and territorialism, I checked the tag on my underwear, and it amazingly had my name on it.  I remember that guy.

Adrien Brody.

I remembered talking about Specific Gravity, or saying that mass and the pull of the curvature of spacetime: voids abhoring, vacuums calling like unto like, and all that, and all the substance of the universe singing various portions, ala String Theory, of the self-same song of amazement, wonder, and all that, set to the rhythm of life and death, and marked by the drip-drop of the perception of time.

It was such to say, "gravitational forces are abundantly self-evident, inductive."

As the bark said, "aim for the butt and do what feels right."

 

hailstorm of the very vices of necessity.

"The author of the Political Justice took abstract reason for the rule of conduct, and abstract good for its end.  He places the human mind on an elevation, from which it commands a view of the whole line of moral consequences; and requires it to conform its acts to the larger and more enlightened conscience which it has thus acquired.  He absolves man from the gross and narrow ties of sense, custom, authority, private and local attachment, in order that he may devote himself to the boundless pursuit of universal benevolence.  Mr Godwin gives no quarter to the amiable weaknesses of our nature, nor does he stoop to avail himself of the supplementary aids of an imperfect virtue.  Gratitude, promises, friendship, family affection give way, not that they may be merged in the opposite vices or in want of principle; but that the void may be filled up by the disinterested love of good, and the dictates of inflexible justice, which is the "law of laws and sovereign of sovereigns".  All minor considerations yield, in his system to the stern sense of duty, as they do, in the ordinary and established ones, to the voice of necessity."

-William Hazlitt on William Godwin.

It is not complimentary to the masses that they are so easily led, but we are not interested in praising or blaming; we are concerned for truth, and the truth is that for better or for worse religious people follow leaders. A good man may change the moral complexion of a whole nation; or a corrupt and worldly clergy may lead a nation into bondage....  -AW Tozer 

Why, we didnt need sociology or HR; we needed anthropology.  We needed the symposium when we had chosen the ampitheater, and the stoa when we had chosen the cinema varete of streaming enigmatically prolific and abundant data--lifetimes of it.  It had come across that SQL remote pull sessions costed hundreds of dollars from disinterested third parties; they had free trial periods, but it was so off putting as to make one forget and yearn for the server-in-the-bathroom of yesteryear.

I wotted a kind of netherworld, a space of odd gravity pockets, where spoken words were not heard, they found no purchase, but the thunk word was far more substantive, it lived and breathed like a monster created in secret, but on the escape and quite frankly, running amok.

I had fallen in with an institute of higher learnings, talking of self-evident objective truths, self-evident good, and so forth, but they would spam me talking about various sins of Mrs Bacon, and the high virtues of Anne Hathaway, how MSNBC set out to renovate culture by uprooting the whole thing, a stripmining of objective good to encapsulate spores on the winds.  Indeed, I wondered how the organization line devolved and coalesced from outling Plato to soapboxing for political movements.

"He has a nice smile" but so do lawn gnomes.

Of that, I had hit on a line in Romans 15, about "receiving others as Christ received you".  I thought of the magnitude of that, how that went beyond even Christ's own words of loving others, this put it in perspective, Paul saying to use the standard of Christ.  Christ's love sacrificed for the good of others, not just being socially kind to people, but really getting in there, man, and doing a good turn above and beyond.

As Christ did?

He was even more than willing to lay down his own life.

What if all those ppl you knocked down fell into your pathway forward?

Remember, the universe cleans itself, and karma is a great wheel that will eventually make a full rotation: it will all come back around.

 

And if you won't be good to yourself, could you reasonably expect others to be good to you, in turn?

Like even, if pressed, some venison meatballs in the pasta sauce, and me, the American, getting told that there is in fact something of just pasta in pasta sauce, but then there's meat sauce.  And other stuff.

But again, not as I would, but as God would that I would do, for that which I would do, I should do not, and that which I kick against the pricks, was probably where I should be in the first place, without all the caterwauling.

Even the most unworkable dreams have a kind of pull, that magnetism that dreams have, where you can't wake up, and you might feel anxiety, but its like, in your own head, you're watching tv.  Of TV, during Gunsmoke I roused and lit one wondering what in the hades had happened the prior day, like I didn't know, but you know, unworkable dreams, and the salient saccharine daydreams of stuff that really won't happen, but you kinda would like that instead, and hell, I just don't know.

In any confrontation, there is either intimidation or inspiration.  You choose how you react: whether to cower or rise to the occasion.  We can become complacent in our dictums, and we become lazy, we can become slaves to our circumstances.  We can react with hostility, defensiveness, envy, and maybe even fear.

Do we regroup and come back better, or do we hide under the porch, my friends?  An orphan became the Emperor of most of the known world.  He said in his private journal that he retained the mindset to react to anything, not by whim or instinct, but reflectively, that he could choose how to react.

Our modern leadership guru wants us to be lions, but even the lion's great majesty is just an image, for the lion is a scavenger, an opportunist.  How much of that should we employ?

Certainly we should take advantage of circumstance, when our principles are observed. 

Should we lapse into complacency at the expense of core business?  Do we spend the work day dreaming of some turn of luck that affords the purchase of daydreams?

Neigh.  We work and dream, too, but we can't stop work to dream, nor can we afford to neglect our dreaming for work.

We might miss stray currents and less beneficial aspects by staying to the center.

Count the stars or drop shafts beneath the crust of the earth, we do, but understand mankind?

Why, it was otherwise, "as flies unto wanton boys are we to the gods"/this Bud's for you! and it was kind of a twiddle widdle play purdy kind of microwaving under a hard glare of pallid indifference, and for all it was, this humanity thing, a scholastic undertaking, but for breathing hard enough, a kind of puff of boredom, such that it could snap the wings right off a butterfly.

In my being birthed a proletariat, I but smelt the earth, time to time, at my fingers, poo on my shoes, cuticles bloody rosettes, and I came to prefer as it were, not to "taste the barrel", but to enjoy the grape, which meant to me I would have the more convenient single man's screw-on aluminum cap rather than the more effete cork.

 

 

Happy New Year. Hello 2023!

(from New Year's Day 2023)

"...sunlight, though it has no favourites, cannot be reflected in a dusty mirror as clearly as in a clean one."  

-CS Lewis

Ah, another year, another opportunity to repeat the same mistakes, or an opportunity for the glorious quixotic pebble-toe half-nature of the impetus towards self-destruction and the love of pure noise and disturbance.

We claw through and breathlessly make our way to the exit sign on 2022, hoping for the first rays of dawn on January 1, 2023. We claw our way through and oftentimes to the pure meanness of staying alive, proving our veracity in simply not fading away, not burning out, proudly facing the throng in defiance, in defense of one's selfish ideals.

Another opportunity to get it right or go up in flames.

Another opportunity.

'Every new year is an uncharted and unknown sea. No ship has ever sailed this way before. The wisest of earth's sons and daughters cannot tell us what we may encounter on this journey. Familiarity with the past may afford us a general idea of what we may expect, but just where the rocks lie hidden beneath the surface or when that "tempestuous wind called Euroclydon" may sweep down upon us suddenly, no one can say with certainty.... '

-AW Tozer

Happy New Year!

Another.

But but but.... i made a New Year's resolution, and everything.  I decided to get started on a whole menu of positive, beneficial changes, like:

Only healthy food, and none of what tastes good.

Boring lovers that are stable in their moods, and probably b elong in a stable, regardless of their mood.

According to Lao Tse:

"Strength is controlling others.

Mastery is controlling one's own self."

But it was a New Year.

And I, feel cheated that all this mess in the New Year has that familiar reek to it, like a bad potato in the bag, of a soiled baby diaper somewhere hidden in the bottom of our garbage can.

But then i think, if i had gotten it right last year, I'd be prepared for new stuff this year, and it seems i'm not prepared for those newer reaches towards the ethereal, all the cavalcade of changes, completely unequal to the mark.

The gas hand in my truck. It had asked when Josef Bundren would have his 87th birthday, and I said I dunno, and the gas hand said he doesn't know either we could ask Hunter but sh*t let's fill the tank and get.

I was praying, hoping, petitioning God Himself that I would have enough gas in my truck yesterday to get back and forth to work.  On the way there, I was tying myself in knots, in my own thoughts, going back and forth on the matter, whether to just turn around, or press on.

All along the way, Hwy 9, the farmland in Dillon and Marlboro counties in South Carolina, part of the so-called "Cotton Trail", flat land, between the piedmont and the sea, very well-watered and fertile, great for growing cotton every year.

The fog was rising.

I was thinking: I could see the sun through the remnant of the fog, and thought, not the Sun but the Son.

Christ was the solar body, burning off the fog of sin and doubt, and metaphorically, fog can easily be equated to doubt, and more thinly to sin, an obscuring force between ourselves and Christ.

That fog was all the prior dead souls coming up, the dead souls and the doubts, dead souls rising into the air, vaporous, going to dissipate into thin air on the ascent to heaven.

Doubts dissipating, too.

Sin dissipating.

Every obscuring force between ourselves and the Lord coming to some sort of evaporation, leaving behind clarity.

A perfect clarity, just as perfect as the Perfect Law of Liberty, to rest in God's will.

For my own part, it was like God was telling me just to continue my drive to work, as planned.  Not that it had the endorsement of God, but maybe that it was better than the alternatives, it was, if not God's outright enumerated plan for me, then it was closer to His will than was turning around and going home.

Under the Perfect Law of Liberty, we look for the will of God to help guide us, we loosen ourselves in our daily walks, to wait for His guidance.  This loosening of our schedules and self-imposed time tables is the Liberty of choosing the Father's will.  And more importantly, the Father's will slots us into perfection and harmony with everyone else.

Everyone wins when we all go to the Father's plan.

But that clarity then, that perfect brilliant orb sitting high in the sky: the Sun, the promise of the Son returned.

"There are, however, no sharp lines or demarcations between the various operations just outlined.[thought and belief] The problem of attaining correct habits of reflection would be much easier than it is, did not the the different modes of thinking blend insensibly into one another."

-John Dewey, How We Think

"We ought to consider no only that our life is daily wasting away and a smaller part of it is left, but another thing which must be taken into account, that if a man should live longer, it is quite uncertain whether the understanding will continue sufficient for the comprehension of things, and retain the power of contemplation which strives to acquire the knowledge of the divine and the human.

For if we being to fall into dotage, perspiration and nutrition and imagination and the appetite, and whatever else there is of the kind, will not fail; but the power of making use of ourselves, and filling up the measure of our duty, and clearly separating appearances, and considering whether a man should now depart from life, and whatever else kind absolutely requires a disciplined reason, all this is already extinguished.  We must make haste then, not only because we are daily nearer to death, but also because the conception of things and understanding of them cease first."

-Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, book three.

"So far there is the same sort of situation as when one looking at a cloud is reminded of a human figure and face.  Thinking in both of these cases(the cases of belief and of fancy) involves a noted or perceived fact, followed by something else which is not observed but which is brought to mind, suggested by the thing seen.  

One reminds us, as we say, of the other."

-John Dewey, How We Think.

The cult of self, Jekyll was at times, up to being half a man, even that much, and other times, not equal to the task, barely putting in the niceties to keep up appearances.

As a half of person, he was out of his depth, but he kept to the line and gave no sign of the truth, that he imbibed himself into someone else.  This is like Stephen King and Peter Straub's other world behind the fog of drink, where good and evil fought tete-a-tete, where the real world reeked more of poverty and dissipation on its own terms.

Here I was thinking Jekyll should have had a third alter ego, something more of a happy medium, but decidedly different than the other too.  But I note Jekyll behaved secretively, and then openly and grand, as if he too were experimenting with making another personality, living his "best life" writ large in the society pages.  And that without a tonic, but his own life energy being used, that wick burning brighter and brighter still, folding down and down, until at last, he would disappear as Hyde for two mighty months.

Amor Fati, Memento Fati....

The bootless cries of a man against his destiny, and other such, the theme of failure as a watchword of the day, leading into the big anniversary tomorrow, Teresa Du'Tres and Felonge De Castille.

but a poor player that struts and frets its hour upon the stage....

Cutting through a sort of melange of stuff, minutia, a sort of "virtue", a sharpened tendril of impetus cavorting and gnawing into the fiber moral, temporal, and so forth, having at the gutty works, and getting chased away like a beggar.

A kind of "honed edge" which meets the material that are put to it, such is to exercise a kind of superlative in a world of flats, but sharps in a room filled with weather balloons.

A kind of prolonged lukewarm birthday party for Kevin.

"And the lawyer set out homeward with a very heavy heart. “Poor Harry Jekyll,” he thought, “my mind misgives me he is in deep waters! He was wild when he was young; a long while ago to be sure; but in the law of God, there is no statute of limitations. Ay, it must be that; the ghost of some old sin, the cancer of some concealed disgrace: punishment coming, pede claudo, years after memory has forgotten and self-love condoned the fault.” And the lawyer, scared by the thought, brooded awhile on his own past, groping in all the corners of memory, least by chance some Jack-in-the-Box of an old iniquity should leap to light there. His past was fairly blameless; few men could read the rolls of their life with less apprehension; yet he was humbled to the dust by the many ill things he had done, and raised up again into a sober and fearful gratitude by the many he had come so near to doing yet avoided. And then by a return on his former subject, he conceived a spark of hope."

-Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

Wee.

In the dominion of the static universe, perhaps I somewhat floated, or lensed as to have specific gravity, I sat like a lump of iron or a millstone, but all the way, the objectives and terabytes coursed through the thinkgood, the brainmeats, the very core of the nut, as it were, and thoughts and ideas, most insensate and ephemeral danced like sugar plums in my head.

All the while, tomorrow, another catcher in the sawgrass, something wicked this way, and various things leaping and cajoling about the various schedule apparatus, all sorts of bs scattering about, as if to be broadcast over a field, waves and waves of it to change the color of the leaves or freeze the mud puddles, or induce Mike Pence to go scurrying along.

There was a kind of trap door, where the hunter sleeps along the bottom of the aquarium, and he patiently waits for the lapse of attention from his prey, for which he pounce at the given opportunity afforded his leisure and guile: neigh, that's what it was, things floating about, an obscure flavored cigar of leisure and guile, and the smoke of that, a kind of rotary output, torque, measurable by machine.

I need to be much more specific about the output of my hobbies, I suppose, but a bit of art, flourish or flair, perhaps is the least indignity done to my little works, and that only showing indignity in the slightest backhanded sense, as if to blame me for the faults of others.

This is what I tell them of a role model: they make a mistake and blame it on the example of their idol, their icon, their stub toe pookah.  Blame that one, for all the good such does.

I have to decide too, when flaws should be changed, or whether that's sort of the paraphernalia of character traits, real identifiable markings and such.  Another opportunity to get it right, right? I cannot afford time-wise too disassemble myself everyday for some obscure arcane cleaning procedure, but perhaps just to dryfire the workings to see if the hammer and pin does what it should; but nevertheless I afford myself the opportunity to realize that I am here. I am here opportunity-plunking to catch the 10,000, 

(And that is how it was, in the first rays of 2023. I could/can feel it without remembering, or remembering without feeling, but never reverse polarity in time travelling into the mandelbrot 2023. It was.

I offer-up this from William Hazlitt remonstrating one of his contemporaries

"Truth, moral truth, it was supposed, had here taken up its abode; and these were the oracles of thought. "Throw aside your books of chemistry," said Wordsworth to a young man, a student in the Temple, "and read Godwin on Necessity." Sad necessity! Fatal reverse! Is truth then so variable? Is it one thing at twenty, and another at forty? Is it at a burning heat in 1793, and below zero in 1814? Not so, in the name of manhood and of common sense! Let us pause here a little.--Mr. Godwin indulged in extreme opinions, and carried with him all the most sanguine and fearless understandings of the time. What then? Because those opinions were overcharged, were they therefore altogether groundless? Is the very God of our idolatry all of a sudden to become an abomination and an anathema? Could so many young men of talent, of education, and of principle have been hurried away by what had neither truth, nor nature, not one particle of honest feeling nor the least shew of reason in it?"

As was said of the Prince of Denmark in madness and good sense, it was intermixed. One could only mark the edges of one in seeing the beginning of the other, owing to the contrast of the two. Its not completely different from doing the necessary rituals to wipe one's ass.)

April becomes May, 2026.

The weather. Testy, dubious, and as it ever was, verging on hopelessly mad, but forever at odds with the notion that hope springs eternal. It was commonplace to hate the weather so much the more than any sense of dread or fear--consider, the climate change people, and the hecklers talking of decades old theories of Global Warming, saying its impossible while saying its the End Times--how easy it is to hate people, to shout them down, whatever, ignore them and whatsoever for doing nothing so contemptible as living their own truths--

oh let them I say, and it wasn't the damnable weather that fueled our epistle, crepiscular sagacious otherwise self-serving noise--

we had plenty of that, and if we monetized, we could finally afford our empathy, apathy, instead of borrowing against our entropy, atrophy and apostasy.

It was not signs of the End Times we were looking for, but signs of normalcy, were we all little trolls that needed it as a kind of ragebaiting fuel to carry us over onto the other page.

And then we found we had completed a full circle around our Monopoly board, and had the pleasure of May blossoms in which to look forward.

As hard the heart of weather's soul are the hopes of misguided mankind,

and the truest genius wiggles along either collecting his nuts or crunching them in repose

in whatever course of events, to profit thereby

our endowment, our crown and charger is the covered wager in whatever outcome, be it the tyranny that is all our yesses and noes, our a donut hole in our sweetest, silliest remembrances.

Ruminations on fish fillets, freedom, and belief: thoughts in good season.

"I catch you on the run. You say you're going to a volcano to rescue animals."

Was there really 25% or so in doubt of a plan in the universe, or even a goodness directed at them? Another 12-18% unsure of how to respond such that it endorsed either faith or doubt. To quote Trinity, "how modern the old folks have become!", when goodness is imputed, personification imputed, upon a static set of natural phenomena. 

It's our hopes templated onto a world that can be both cruel and provident, sometimes in the very same instance.

That one philosopher, thoughts out of season grown into such prodigiousness, very cranium pooched, while another was such behind and navel-gazing hard onto the popular consciousness, had come down from the mountaintop in tatters.

A veritable Der Gubermensch.

Could we say 68% were tokens of their system? Was this the upright plurality which is so frowned-upon by the freethinkers? 

And of the doubters pool and the non-committal blanks, were these the gradient of freethinkers that back-rowed and shunned Sunday Night, but sat in Bible Study behind the eyes of hungry racoons, ravenous squirrels, whom were the subset of mankind over-lapping from the universities, the television-obsessed, sex, drugs and rock'n'roll and variously butt-pirates, drag-queens, dispensary agents, and highway men.....

Be ye not.... ...observers of the times....

Profligate information, the very bane of the supposed good dogmatics, and Meta with datasets such that their private portion of computer resources might be used to extract marketing insights. Nevermind a word in good season?

However it comes, I roar.

Push 2 to hear this message en Espanol.

Let me put to paper now the degaussing of this great big old sumbitch.

Bombast establishing all future bad behaviors, we find in go-rounds ahead certain expectations that will no doubt perturb all humanity. A client state called a hell-hole, our very 51st state, and then expressing the want of a 52nd and 53rd state, citing various good turns that could be lauded upon those populations. Many would anticipate conversely indolent lands become hellholes like that 51st, ignored until it becomes a gripping human interest story, until the power goes out, until Anderson Cooper arrives. It was an unfair pidgeon-holing, rhetoricaly, a self-inflicted papercut of pain without blood.

Not that I don't like the guy. Or don't like the populations of prospective client states.

"I knew it was you, Fredo."

But, he said it himself.

"Johnny Hola knows all the best places."

Better be glad Chuck Norris is cleaning-up the afterlife, because in the meantime, the truth is the route to freedom, and the yoke of bondage your "Purpose Driven Life", and I'll put it absolutely last on my to-do-list to condescend to purchase wildlife for pampering, in some guilded cage, chewing the furniture. I'd sooner purchase ass-butter for myself and your mother to use in our self-guided meditations of self-gratification while staring into each other's eyes like confused twenty-somethings, as if for the very first time, such perpetuity in its anger and "enlightened self-interest".

Anyway, of our "great big old sumbitch", gobbless and good luck, I says, because he is not only the very best of us, though some say not, and the most prominent of us, but he is also the worst of us. So I say, let the best of us have its perfect work in the contested dreams of our American leader. May the worst of us only touch light for the provenance of our cause for freedom, here and abroad.

Usual Suspects or "no surprise here":

Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich (1977). The Phenomenology Of Spirit. translated by Miller, A.V., Findlay, J.N. Oxford University Press. New York. ISBN 978-0-19-824597-1

Bronbach, Hollis(2026). Our Urethras Are Our Utopia: The New Our Persons, Ourselves. Fibner and Locust Micro/Macro Periodicals(Nashville, Mckinnon Freehold) https://www.thereasonedlife.com

Mill, John Schubert(1775). Motherfuck All Yall, My Rims Are Clean, Yall(3rd edition). translated by Raymond White(2004). Tandem House Press. Mt Croghan.

Earls, Aaron(@wardrobedoor, X.com)(2026). Growing Number Of Churchgoers Face Doubts. Lifeway Research. https://research.lifeway.com/2026/04/07/growing-number-of-churchgoers-face-doubts/

Laboratory of Freedom.

Them some nappy-headed hoes, and I say that in full view of the irrevocable soft-dictates of the world of man, the world of nature, and the in the reflection of God. Comes a shining instance when one speaks his truth, and its so often what entangles the one side, the very consensus of the right. It's the utter solidarity of the group, its that they all sound alike, such that it stinks-up the laboratory of freedom.

There is profound zest to institute Our American Democracy in the furthest closed-door kingdoms of the world--we check Cuba, at a juncture does it not seem the willingness to hand the concept of self-rule to one man, while the others do their bidness--and here we cast ballots we don't trust, we catapult broken imperfect individuals into the zenith of our perfect union--there They had that one guy holding watch over freedom, self-governance, in the complete trust of his people until it wasn't--we could check Persia, salad shooter of religion, Godhead visited upon mankind in the form of an angry preach, a concept I walked away from once, but not to leave it be, but to put it in my little scrapbook of bullshit until I chose recourse.

Dissent was not permitted, in the finest neo-Cuban tradition, which provoked me to symbolism over substance--dissonant noise in the firmament, my own vinyl become an unreachable purity of gold.

Shit if I forget who I am, or if I forgot ever the great I Am, I say in the near edge of Easter 2026, free thinker free believer free zealot of the concept of freedom.

I railed against the false Gospel of instantaneous salvation, such that we so rarely see anyway in the world of mixed-minded man--if you didn't listen to their music, out, if you didn't share that same smile that was saccarine on top, Prozac underneath, out, when the quiddity of the thing was obedience. Some people just make a joyful noise, while others are about substance, and its understood that oftimes we park our brains....

But we can't set aside what Lincoln et al spoke of, even as people think of him as an admirable wartime leader, that the more perfect union was not a false-utopia, but the very fishbowl of people who are, were, will be, contrary to each other, contrary to themselves, in fact, as we come towards our own faith in freedom in the world of men, impetus to equilibrium in the world of nature, and continual dervishing towards the high calling. Paul referred to it as contention, going towards unreachable sanctification, why we mistrust those who lay not hold of sin for the sake of flinging it out the window in disgust, with sin after all something that cannot be done away with unless it is lay hold of, first.