Having my own "data analysis firm" and sitting in a pool with 220 candidates for single positions on the internet; this consolidation reeks inflation by unemployment, death by lack of use, frustration by misuse, and the funneled non-sense of careers where so many merely had jobs, and nothing so illustrious as a career. Only those setting policy seemed to have any semblance of "job security", as it rain their piss across a disillusioned non-participating populace, "plumber" their friends(the policy makers) had said--a million defaulted student loans could become entry-level plumbing apprentice positions.
Woken to find my socks off my feet, those sitting part way up, past my ankles. Some friendly ghost had undressed my feet and left me partially nude in the night, and I had those same puzzle-solving dreams, problem-solving dreams, my mind working out solutions to unreal problems, my mind, my mind, even in slumber trying to pitch-in, dreams in disquietude where the helter skelter dreamscape was most disquieting was not disheartening in how it appeared, but in how it really was.
And "Woke" being misappropriated by popular culture. I think of Shane, living by the popular dollar, and conversely, obversely, dying by the popular dollar the way Glenn did; it can happen, as so many put their lives on a thread. I thought myself perhaps lucky to be outside of the "cash and carry" economy, but time and circumstance happeneth to them all, and the rain just and unjust alike, times and seasons, as above so, vanity being vanity and vanity being carried on the wind.
1) (February 1, 2023) I still have a recollection of the shape of her bosom in that red silken shirt; she came to see me later, and it went not well, with not to much exchanged between. I see her perhaps to a degree, still, as my own game of Simon, to push her buttons and sequentially react to this or that, action and reaction, flaming toothpaste volcano of love and sexually urgency, our timidities pounding in our youngling stupid ears, our plight still, even in the secret moments: only what someone else gave us.
2) (February 1, 2023) A man convinced, from his mountaintop, from his own promenade, from his own view of the countryside, that he had certainly lost something, a thing that he never really had anyway. He missed it, and he wrote a cycle of best-selling books about it, getting a publisher firmly behind him with their marketing dollars, and an agent, feet on the desk, spouting ideas for his remonstrance.
3) (February 1, 2023) I had took to the Evening Post, the fortnightly, and found that Mrs Hearst's vagina was still as young and vital as ever. "May it always be so" I was saying, my mind trying to overwrite that with the thought, "somebody else's problem".
4) (May 1, 2023) I had looked to the skies and prayed for rain(headful of ideas that are driving me insane), and I had roundly shook out the sifter, separated the real gold dust from the impotent sands.
5) (February 1, 2023) A rotund little jiggle-billy at the mercy of the Sanctions Monkeys, continually penalized when the prospect of pressure clearly doesn't outweigh the perceived danger; somewhere in that, they make high finance, monies, and hostile nations partner-up in the light of walls of red-tape and speeches that were well-paid for. All the while their hope is not peace, perhaps, but to pay car payments, and that is what the system gave us--an endless cycle of words and punishments for words, stipends for bureaucrats.
Can a man lose that which he never had anyway?
Some threats have no teeth, as it were, and men a world away from the action cannot put their words at the scene reliably and with certitude of forethought, because they have put nothing to the fear of a loss, nothing on the table, no skin in the game, and only the endless selling of their words....
strangled by yards of sentence surrounding like crime scene tape, something of a Mary Collinsworth sweet ripening party, while her own dying body was about to grow ripe, raped and "mine" carved into her neck.
How teeth are loosened and made so inconsequential, a veritable lack of teeth for the one that had misspent the day chewing on assflesh, when the day was a resource for joy and happiness. And were the two the same thing, anyway? Same drawbridge, same toll.
Matt Dillon would scour the territories for miners, perhaps, strays, dry-gulchers, panners that may have had the nagging little precipitate to bring it off horrorshow. Remember Grandma was horny all those years for Pernell Roberts, and in her later years, the edge blunted of her sanity, she would full admit the truth in any company whatsoever, as if it were as plain a fact, her thing for Adam Cartwright: Adam Cartwright and her thing. Being a thing, the two combined: two things.
"should'a been dead on a Sunday morning in my head...."
The raw novelty of the thing was that it had to be intricately documented, the finery of the thing recorded for posterity, to be stored in libraries, searched over years later, and published in numerous histories in the far reaches of the future. I was just saying that I was looking at the window, not even looking out the window, but just sort of staring at the thing itself, you know, a kind of landmark of a point in time it was, and I remember at that time, Pernell Roberts wasn't being beamed around the satellites; there were fewer then, and military grade GPS hadn't been made available to the public.
Pernell Roberts would have poured-over the thing as if it were a job, but it really being just a hobby, that he took any task, however it was, as it were of a kind of monolithic importance. I gave no permanence to the moment I was talking about, kind of floating along the timeline like the little ghost in Mario Brothers, kind of strolling about in some gigantic highway to the seaside in Alexandria, Egypt, kind of wandering.
Not lost, per se, but wandering, as was said, "not all who wander are lost". But I might be simultaneously, and distinctively in both states, "lost" and "wandering" in perhaps senses that are unrelated, disparate states of being at once, as of having two feet for which to bestride two provinces at once, in the selfsame moment.
Of Mary's ripening, a kind of hydrosis, or something, a layer of water between her person proper and the skin section, the rind covering of her person, a kind of artificial weight induction, something of a stymie of the body mass index, Mary would begin to smell, and perhaps even draw flies. They would need mentholatum to get near her, that or some other kind of thing, the kind of Febreze that nices up a corpse, and all the well, Matt Dillon's determined chin.
Set the Comanche and Festus to abide at the Landmark Inn while the old marshal, the big old slow-talking farmboy, pitched spleen and his bowlegged stance at whomever come wrong on the thing; a convertible sedan near the woods, and all, a kind of existential "up yours" to the whole thing, watching the west die the death of the CCCP, spending its way into oblivion, a la the end of the Cold War, but a revenge visited on the West, an honest tab of just desserts with the entry wound shaped like the tip of his own weapon.
A private army of desperate welfare moms taking on professional military combatants, and, held in reserve, an all girl army that "knows Kung Fu". We're all full of ideas.
Strange thoughts assail on a Sunday night on the edge of the big woods. Partial memories, some, co-mingled with other things, and even the sound of two different televisions contorting two different types of shows, not just two shows, but two different type of shows, ye dig? Meanwhile, a stereo system adding a third voice, four memories, all that noise, and an Oprah quote about depression, she called it a loss of self, essentially, and she didn't much put note to it, but let the participants do both the writing and the underlining, as was her brilliant sort of way, to let them try to bring it off, because they knew their own terrain best.
A kind of doldrum in between all of that, the different sub-currents and strifes and strains of the things, and what was that--4 things, 3 sound streams, and an Oprah quote. It was something of depression in some of the things, and somehow we even dragged in the Marshall from Dodge City, and all that, and it became as it were, greater in sum than any particular piece in and of itself put to scrutiny.
We have, as it were, a coalition of trained zombies, gun-toting, facing-off against that army of desperate welfare moms(if they don't fight, they dont get SNAP benefits), meanwhile we've transposed Adam Cartwright into Gunsmoke, and somehow, Miss Kitty is a ho, and my granny is a ho in her old age, and everybody is sort of broached of character and integrity, and the only true zombies, the zombies themselves, and Adam and Matt, for all their wooden expressions.
You would turn a cross on its side in the middle of such a skirmish, and strap Miss Kitty to that, after a brief torture session to soften her, and then light fires around Dodge. Festus and the Comanche, back from the Landmark Inn, drinking Sasparilla and smoking two Commandante cigars.
Doldrums and Tradewinds and Horse Latitudes and so forth, none of which explained the conviction that maybe there was something amiss in that old memory of mine, something more amiss than the soup of demented television commentary from my familiars, the conviction that it was the onset of some kind of feeling; they had said so much of becoming a teenager. They said as much about becoming an old fart, too.
Far more jarring as it were, to transpose the old Western show characters as if they were entirely interchangeable, but then Oprah and 90's Top 40 songs, an 80s Brat Pack comedy and a staid news show.
We could self-righteously call Miss Kitty a ho, but we have to at least, and its not even condescending from our seat on heavenly clouds, agree that she certainly was a pimp, a mistress, a madam, a lady of the evening. Fret none, there is no pearl in her clamshell, and the forthright and upstanding slow-talking local constabulary will not stoop to marry her--the pretense of making one honest.
5) (February 1, 2023) He was watching me as I worked at the desk, making my calendar. I was digging through Google Docs and help pages, trying to find something, an advisory on how to actually sell a Google Calendar file, if there could be such a thing, to sell access to a super calendar. I was working at it, pulling at it with both hands, and at the end, a little flotsam of my shame.
We had our differences, but what made it all worthwhile, set a hue to the prism, was our similarities, and that little smile almost put lead back into my pencil, where all the lead had squirted out just moments prior. Hell, it was sweet icing for his little Waffle Fries.
"You like my itinerary?"
"It has a certain caveman dignity--a monolithic kind of sense about it."
I got under my caveman blanket in the other room and ruminated, I put it through a kind of interpretive matrix of things about OBGYN concerns and schedule maintenance, and tannery and all sorts of other, even the Zodiac somewhere.
Would he try to kill me?
I was just, as it were, making a calendar, a list of dates and references about various things, even the Zodiac, and he was, Parnassus, the wall at the corner of the town, a fringe kind of barrier between thee and me, and I had to push right through him, stick it through his middle.
"On this date in history..."
The debut of the Edsel.
The shuttering of hundreds of Blockbuster stores.
Reggie Jackson broke the home-run barrier.
But to make a Google Calendar, sell access to that, access URL given via email, and the thing encompassing various subjects and philiars of daily life, across minutia and other things, birthdays, deathdays, monumental reason du'tre of society, various national days and days from other nations, so that the things is relevant across the spectrum, across the world, wherever the little Google fingers reach down from the sky to touch a person.
6) (February 6, 2026) She is scared sh*tless of me. And I was laying there, one knee pulled up: it had my ass cheeks kind of opened up, where when I broke wind, it sounded like that whisper of butterfly language, and so many people could be offended by the surly speech of a butterfly, even think I hated Mariah Carey, which I don't, but that I had a problem with somebody, and I was projecting my own contradiction and fallacies onto the innocent person of George Russell, that no one ever died from ill-intent or anything, but I was the little impetus mixing in the water like powdered electrolytes, and if I brought it off, the entire remainder of the empire would slide off a cliff.
Even as I pushed her onto the third rail, it was never outwardly markable that she was scared of me(February 1, 2023). Never was(May 1, 2023).
But what I had run up the pole, run it right up there, was an impossible idea to share a calendar amongst some hundreds or thousands of strangers, kind of viral thing amonst the populace, a death code matriculating in various communities, percolating and evolving, baking like bread, making, and thats what it was, making, like the yeast rising the dough, and then George Rousseau's eyebrow went up one millimeter, and I was left alone in the room, no calendar file made, and only a fart smell to prove the moments had elapsed.
They are really nibbling away at the population totals, aren't they? 3 here, 12 there, 6 over yonder.
That sh*t adds up.
Who's gonna watch Avatar 2 if yall keep shooting everybody?
I wonder and mayhap, I am a wonder.
God said, "I am." And further, "I am that I am." "I am the great I am".
Talking theology wise of the pursuit of knowledge, on the ministry page, i think there is a contramanding tendency at self condemnation and knowledge for impure ends: it reeks of original sin, where some pursuit of knowledge is that terminator, that remote edge between day and night, the tug of war between wonder and the unholy side of knowledge--not unethical against laws, but unjust and unfit for man existentially, such as the world-destroying paradox created in California, Woodlow Park, fusion, fission, a'fishin' and a con'fusion underwritten in the pursuit of a perpetual, inexhaustable resource.
Of this, it too, I suppose is a wonder.
7) (February 1, 2023) Franz Tost was building a fire pit behind his property, at the rear, in relative seclusion, security, and presumed privacy, a fire pit for pulled pork, pizzas, and all sorts of fun food fodder. I peed near the base of the thing, slinging little sand flecks against the masonry, but he could but love me even still for my loose ways.
That fleck of sand was as my life at the root of eternity, how it figured in the beginning, and how the adjusted balance will later figure, less than one of 66000 words that describe but one solitary funklequarry, not even an insignificant ankle or wrist piece, less than that, but dignified, nevertheless, a "unique", like a horrid busted tooth singing along.
I am a wonder, I wonder if the quiddity of so much, and the quiddities of so much reflect me back into the spectrum, part of like a broad class portrait, and that too is a wonder, not to catch the enormity of the perspective. Horatio Alger, downcast, suggests slightly that I invented my own wonder, and that the immensity of it was too, my own invention, as if it were not naturally occurring, just as Eden was between the rivers, so too, this magnitude was between dueling perceptions.
The boundaries of the friend's perceptions perhaps lacked proper solidity, which put him insecure defensively, but the question persisted, and eventually he would take up the subject, if only perfunctory at the start. The subject would become, as it were, as if his own, for him to tell for every available ear, in his own good time, in his own jello bowl of stars. And I would, at intervals, look up from reading Dr Cornell West's book, only so that I could see if the flap was sputtering, yet.
8) (May 1, 2023) I had chitlins' in an old toilet in the edge of the woods, in the bowl. Still steaming, guts still screaming, all the unsatiated dreamin'.
