Random Tangents Reign

...You are new to this writing, because the pat answers lie to create space of between letters encroach on. HIgh Maintenance begins on one tier and educates on another; the tiny scale of this sample hits the river midstream, romantically questioning the Oxbow curves which lie before it. To further sample the impact of rushing water against dirt embankments, follow this link www.daresay.com and wind your way through the gauntlets' tunnel till your raw fingers find second skin. Patience pays kindly, in a manic world.

Brock Hanson

415-378-1003

The crib betrays the cradle we laid in.

This is as it was writtten.

Reaching to the light switch, minus it’s plate I suppose/I grope, my brain is unprepared for the incandescent shock of the room, windows black sheeted in Visquene, cigarette ash dusting the entire horizontal dimension, as if a crater were smoking nearby. Hasty coke implements scattered consciousness to the rug, burned in places by uncaring, and stained by lack of awareness. This wasn’t the world of a surrounding you’d choose to inhabit, if you were conscious of end results. Rancid beer bottles floated dead stagnancy, brewing evil-smelling filter bile the unwary might quaff, in a drug-fueled thirst of passion. One pale green, and one black light glowed feebly in the shoe-box DJ room, secured by a thick felt curtain stapled nonchalantly into a perfect wall, recently painted and spackled by an artisan hoping their extra attention would elicit same. The corners of the out-of-date ID card wreaked and delaminated in powders, suggested actions the law hadn’t foreseen; pillows like spent charcoal filters exhumed depravities of self-abuse, some who know better would boast to imagine; hopeless dreams of mega-stardom missed lessons of simple belief and decreased ego, as a method to mask the existentialism which gondolas us around. His was a basement cave hung with spray painted dimensions of things, a honed edge of a person down needy and deep. The air was a muck you slogged though, to liberate each window latch, sticking with the necessity of base abuse.


Ten shopping bags of crap explained why cigarettes, alcohol, candy, stimulants and five meals a day sandwiched in brain-grinding sound was taking its toll. The magnitude of what had to be suppressed was destroying a giant’s vitality, and burning bridges in life, despite everyone’s heartfelt intentions to help him. Clinging to his own destruction, the angels crowded around, shaking their heads. The sacred within if anything, is balanced by the demons without; the corners are sadly, ashes to ashes and dust to dust. I brought in halogen work lights, broke open the beer-stuck windows, and atomized an entire box of incense, and four hours later, in a sleep-deprived coma, I fell headlong into the bed his night-bound fears inhabit, chemicals slowly leeching from bloodstream to urine, unleashing the demons of self to maraud him ... he awakes to displace them on somebody else, before reaching to the bong. A dark magician denying his powers infects the world around my sleeping form; I awake thirty times, locked in the embrace of serial battles with the outcomes inclined to infinity. Event the carpet under the bed radiates the conflict of unsatiated desires which know no positive bounds.


The drunken reality of the drama sleep unfolds, issued drums’ distance, pulsing the roof lines of consciousness, where the subaltern sky appears and vanishes just as quickly. This is the realm of knowing, while knowing nothing at all ... the ennui equals the passion in flowers and thunderstorms swirling in reaction to foregrounds we dimly conjure, to in turn endure the denial of claiming, we can’t understand. Luck, fate, God’s platitudes and scoldings ... the manhandled feminine mysteries, hiding in secret chambers of the heart, all concurrent in our angst. His sheets were steeped in cornered ambiguities, and fortresses against the minions he’s engineered to founder the boar inside, seeking escape. The con fornicates with the pro in Bacchanalian feasts of senses we’re senseless to; the entire pantheon of symbolic structures co-habituate, tearing the greater’s lessers limb from limb. Needless to say I quote. Awaking head filled in sorcerers’ curses, I staggered to the door, and stepped out lame, and naked in the challenge of apropos.




Your Relationship is the fact piranhas are cowardly and freakish alone, stressed to the point their skin changes color: it highlights the fat of the businessperson, showing their narcissistic insecurity through power derived from others. Ceilings are floors; parades are funerary processions; pillars of community are thieves and criminals illuminating tokens, and owners of SUVs are flocking to illegal horns which deafen pedestrians. Who cares, with a noise-canceling interior? Ego drives the road we struggle to navigate, aware we’re technically nothing. I wish I believed the universe existed for us to conquer, mine, and destroy. It would be much easier to murder those who blundered into the rifle sight of that particular aim. I’d like to duct tape the offending owners’ heads against their high priced sirens luring the best part of themselves, from their higher purpose on earth. Gangs protect those who are lost, add nationalism in the face of world terror to the scene of Catholics burning witches alive, afeard of the power a single person could muster, if they strayed from the herd banding together for sanity. Excuse me for taking a saint’s name in vain, but Jesus Christ! When will the hollow men in power fall to the people’s shine for reason, and truth? We magnify deceit, by converting to it, in-between a few sad rallies for virtue.

The twenty-something mom with a wad of bills, who choked out her fate, as the plane soared over Mt. Shasta’s lava rivulets, still visible after endless centuries of rain and gravity, snatched her drink from the server, and muttered thanks. In unison we uplifted our plastic cups and slurped, uttering satisfied ahhs as the poison hit home, thining the brain’s blood. She’s single again, looking, it would seem, a huge rock on her finger the man to my left notices, and wonders about. He buys her a drink about six laughs into her naturual ebulence, fueled by a burning desire to be liked, and a flirty need to touch people, as if she didn’t mean anything by it. What the hell; we all like it; why not? By Crater lake we lounged into our buzz, and the melting snowcaps fountain light back, the shadow of the plane whispering dark, as she shows us her stretch marks. I like that. Honesty is best; her horror of them is offset by her non-chalance.


Acutely beautiful, she is... I look to my right at the strip mined forests, and gasp—the clouds are attempting to hide the brutality; the replanted land screams monoculture, lake after lake of overpasturized milk, designed for fallout shelters. Are we drinking bloody marries now? I can’t help noticing you’re wearing a cheap, chain mail g-string jutting fromn the too-tight jeans, that prepregnancy fit you. Oh hell; the clear cuts are flower fields; imagine all the repressed art, until fires destroy the over head canopy, like the country now, etc. The best way to burn someone, is smear them with glitter; she was my very first woman, fucking around ... the sex was too good, what can I say? I held off for a year, he never caught on. He was a bus driver. I examine her lip stud, and imagine why it’s here; the clouds part to revere mount Adams; Cascadia, America radiates its fuck-you independence; didn’t I tell you not to shout that at me?! Nevertheless, the logging continues, and yes, I was an alcoholic, but the baby stopped that; I stippled my eyes to the blinding light of a late May sun roaring in through the opposite window, "I don’t know, she was an artist or some shit; she was crazy." I like crazy people the Knute Rockney style post Frat boy age forty said, and she laughed. Well, shit. I suppose I do too. She’s working it bit by bit big time he’s surmising her with surveyor eyes, wounded southern gentleman to the core.


I must confess, I like being like this. The moment is all pervasive; the type of men I always long for, are all tabooed, and tough thru, stewardess, do we have time for another round? I feel sorry for the married couple opposed us, judging our hallowed hilarity. This, the curse of the mythic beautiful girlfriend, who legitimizes herself to wife, mother, and matriarch. We are ignorant children drinking and laughing our lifetimes away, torn an d tortured by that which we do not have. Saint Helens the ancient instrument howling the void, to the folds of valleys beneath it, fifty nine degrees, one hundred and ten miles to fly unless you’re going to Spokane with us. Sin: she has so much energy, she fairly vibrates; the courage to be curious is not rewarded, where jealousy is converted to hate, and emblematic curios of envy. Tragically, most everyone of note on the plane, is boring. They have little to nigh idea how to envelop the moment, and live.


Planes eventually decent the drop the oil to lubricate women men the orgasm is different. I have situated myself in the seat of higher learning, next to unhinged beings brimming with life. The clouds we knife at five hundred miles per hour are perception , as we bank around a thunder head. What’s this doing here? You know how a cup inside a very, but not quite melted cup of ice, when you arrive at the bottom, spills al over you? I mean, you aren’t even drunk, but the plastic piles up, and what else do you do with it?


You know, I want to tell my beautiful girl/boyfriend that I love her/him, and I do, don’t get me wrong, but they he she won’t can’t can is afraid to understand the world is too large, too big the love is under over above. I wanted to not but I had to. The power of wanting and obtaining ... she said, three minutes max. I thought: no wonder I’m fucked up. The first beauty that walks down the street—I wonder. I can’t gel with nest, it’s a general narrowing. Am I skewed, or it defines itself as a gender thing? Hardly my friend—it’s age old. It’s the want-you thing; no amount of it is sufficient, egos all lurch towards it, you know the drill. Direct hits become misses; it’s all in who and why, not facts assembling themselves into coherent holes we can measure. I feel that hole, and he enthusiastically tries to describe it; how can we meet there? Once you troll for opposites, nothing else will do.


So that’s how we understood each other; a fleeting sunburst illuminated the window’s cobwebs, floaters swam lazily in damaged retinas, and the sound of termites chomping was barely audible. Did you know they choose wood by the sound of it, when they bite it? She suddenly offered. The fleeting brilliance, mottled by clouds’ dance, hypnotized me to her voice. They choose wood by it’s size, she trailed on, as if reminding the creator of his/her work. They eat it like playing song, whose resonance agrees with them. So you’re saying ... you could fake them out, by vibrating the wood at a different rate? Apparently, that’s true. I spend a long time appreciating how welcoming, and serene she is. A small songbird sits on her shoulder, feathers fluffed and eyes closed; a moving truck backs into a pole, and we hear a crunch.


The week before, there had been a lot of screaming, and wild bouts of accusation. I read in the same paper, nicotine appears to make women think more like men, such as it’s possible to say that— knowing as little as we do about thinking. In consideration of Lenny Bruce, I’d fielded the hail of abuse, knowing it hit home somewhere, it’s shocking volume a procedure of my resistence. The now-infamous Phil Spector claimed Bruce died of an overdose of police, never mind the dump truck of powders and financial worries. I’m simply a post; a mirrored obstacle people hit, and yelp, with the pains of past pains unreconciled. I am a convenient thing to be injured upon, for I facilitate integration, and right myself from the damage their blind spot hits me with. I welcome destruction, in a way, being invisible ... as mediums are untrained shamans, channeling chaotic forces without the ritualism to divide good from bad, self from the whole, and clear from muddy. She’s a vixtress and saint in one, a subtle and brutal wielder of power, mostly against herself.


Women’s bodies are resonant shapes men check for morphic potential; how would I vibrate with her? What would the result mean? Later : How do/will I extricate myself from this frequency? So the ball counsels the players smashing it obverse to themselves, over the net. Creativity and expression or anger and love are complicated affairs. The focus which allows us to exist is beyond the polar opposites we ascribe to; the simple breath we absorb to exhale is a divinity we ignore to persist upon our courses as automatons, judging all which seems to conflict with our puny notions of the expansive sides of ourselves. Each fraction of a moment’s moment, is inter-locuting with innumerable bubbles of quantum foam we’d call fate, or randomness ... the idea we’re re-engineering old knowledge as such, is laughably puerile, considering how complex we’ve become.

The ddge of degeneration into chaoic tyrany

I’d almost call you a misogynist, if you didn’t revere women so much. I have high expectations concerning people in, or with power, I counter. If George Bush ran a cattle ranch, I’d think he was a fine individual, forging ahead with the job he was fit for, but as a president ... and likewise, when I recognize those who’d better fit his elected role, or some subtle equivalent of it ... I want to shake them up. You naively have a resounding responsibility to liberate your final gifts to the world. Stop hiding in a sniveling retreat of I’m not good enough. And you’re immune from this? Hardly. Why else would I profess it? The preachers on TV are sinners, who don’t believe. Why else would they shout so loudly? Look at it this way; in recent history, we did research sowing the disease women were less intellectually capable than men, we know it’s bullshit, but people are stuffed with it, and can’t learn to shed themselves of the weight, they’ve grown attached to.

I used to bust my ass for art, singlehandedly carrying a hundred found pounds of raw materials two miles to chaotically assemble them in my bedroom, for lack of any other space, sweeping the saw of overwhelming passion from my mattress at four am, to fall into a coma of wondering, where I’d get money for food in the morning. Photography, once my love, my temptress, and my soul mate, is now associated with deprivation, and suffering. Writing is the futile pursuit of dreamers. Selling out, is the only financial gain in the arts. You have to procure the instinct to privatize your passion, and prudently churn out dim instincts of sleepwalkers’ desire.

Most people want a percent of the perceived take, whatever that is. They need to assuage their state of perceived suffering, eh? Relative as the word is, or can be. Tangibility is the substance we parlay to one another in this world, not spirit. The original currency is not recognized as such; love has ceased to register as gold, which can not be spent. Fort Knox was once the metaphorical heart of this nation; how easily we forget what fueled this land, we ran over. Somewhere, deep in the crypt of collisions and documents the popes wrought, and the governments forged is the one detailing how all American Indians must be exterminated. Lies cover fears of discovery : those who embody higher states of humanity, more in tune with themselves, mysteriously disappear, at the hands of those who fear them. Those who reflect the truth, are the most dangerous weapons, on the lower levels of causes and effects. Violent, shallow meins can not withstand scrutiny from the cosmic orders of higher or lower; they only stand in a state of perpetuated (or perceived) fears.
You want me to bust my ass again, don’t you? You’re mommy, and I’m surrounding you, making it safe. It reeks of nuclear family, accumulating pressures to ignite in a blinding flash of something, which might be profound, given the correct state of mind. Your family fell to pieces, so you want to make a good one, removing the soulful doubt it’s possible to sow bliss, in confines. I’m honored you think I’m the one; but I’m also compressed by it. My family didn’t self-destruct; our motivations are inexact as side by side equations, if they’re meant to prove your outside, is [reflects] your insecure, individual desires.

elements of things to come that have been

The (metaphorical) gun to the head roulette of male vs. female war bespeaks a dowery locked in a chest each person wishes to fully possess.
the spontaneous remission or eruption of language structure
you should get some nice fog sounds for your phone, she said.
stalin driving the arts to produce retouched paintings and photography at the increasinly frenzied rate of his executions, driven by his time honored brand of self-induced paranoia, which becomes and procures itself. The extermination of political rivals blurred freinds into enemies, and enemies into allies.
Found a case of wheaties on the street and ate them for weeks, during which time the song which tore me apart hit the top of the charts, and since I possessed nothing but a radio ... I cried a lot in my wheat flakes. Heartbreak. Jesus! A soul-shattering hangover is easier.
"A resume means nothing. Who cares? How do you feel when you see the art? What is its sound, it’s color in your head? I carry nothing but my sketches, the ides to the ideas I’ll soon be painting, so show a gallery owner. If they can’t see what they want in simplicity, I will have a bad relationship with them, in the long funnel of compromise, which constitutes most people’s dealings with art."
The film which included the random stuff which led to the first line, at which point, the film ends.
we worked the etymology of Porter beer until
the Frank Zappa claymation began
bigger drama Neil entailed, started with our ousting.
Select the edge of deciding what to see, and what not to, then remain motionless there.
Gramma got me high when I was eight—‘Oh shush you, he’s old enough girl!’ What’s wrong wid you? E’s a man. Ain’t you huh?
Brain tainted on The Barvarians Restaurant fare at what used to be Esalen, we were painting bold black swaths with sumi brushes on willing troubadours’ t-shirts
his attention for details had the resolve of a pocket microscope on a first world field study

as light is a particle and wave, time is a contracting expansion, pulsing to the constant movement of the cosmos, it’s breath, if you will. This ‘resonant pendulum’ of small forces in subtle concerted pulls shift space-time backwards and forwards through
imperceptible tugs over immense
periods of time.
Indian punch daggers could pierce the skull of an elephant
The other sex ... glad they’re here, but painful to behold, like ...The pain fortuned by being overwhelmed by a Matisse exhibit ... do you know what I mean? Tears in the eyes a single brush stroke invokes, blurs our appraisal of pain. When it’s for beauty, is it a blessing or a curse? It’s difficult to create or possess what they represent. I try to think of beautiful people, or those who have manufactured their beauty, as paintings; the Fauvism of the world highlights wild beasts for distinguishment ... who am I to argue with it? I see violence in painted ladies and petty generals. It is the way we proceed, to remanufacture that which has been.
A still frame of early motion morphing in pen and ink, black sand I imagine a stylized porn, taken from the abstract, which would invoke the goddess.
The ratio of PHI in nature
terry said, two people are 50 dollars more.
"We just don’t do it at home any more, now the kids are the age." It took me a moment to realize they were talking about crack, not sex, so to speak. The conversation veered.
The way you do things to cover change becomes habitual; I noticed as my hair thinned, I didn’t run my hands though it the way I used to, for it acknowledged how much less I had. What happens first? The telemers shrink, and we age, or we age, and they shrink ... the stresses upon us affect them,
add drugs and alcohol, forget ... for more fear bespeaks more impending release. The alluring aspects of sex to forget our problems wears a variety of costumes from food to sports
he cried for a week afterwards, the stress in the moment was so shattering... the deafening silence following a firestorm... whispering a latent homosexuality of the material world unfulfilled by male/female interaction ... and people abstruse with authenticity at late night pizza joints, bypassing the terminal fact connection is all that counts as oevure. General Grant meant it when he said, No superfluous flummery.
life trails the moments we’re too afraid to succumb to, as the nature of the unknown is itself.
The Maleus Maleficarum, a historical handbook chronicling 600,000 to nine million women’s violent deaths, is a testament to the Christian hard line, and what it’s capable of doing, to preserve its maligned power structure.
The reason women are subdued, is they know too much. When polished by freedom, they’re bloodhounds for bullshit.
The Knights Templar stash of secrets is nothing, compared to the ability each of us has, to pierce the veil within us.
I head the wives tale of the lifesaver candy heir who drowns, after suicidally jumping overboard. The whole thing was too weird and ironic to muster initial doubt, so like a virus, it got me, and I passed the disturbance on. [See Tragic comedy, how we love it, and why, page 31]
A firearm completely changes the rules of engagement ... imagine seeing one, where they didn’t exist before ... the arm must have spouted flame, to the untrained eye, for the weapon is an extension of it, like a pike, or a spear.
Realistically, I have fifty books at all times I’d like to read. My shelf has to be hidden, or sold, to keep myself grounded in the reality of what is possible to attain in this limit-stricken world.
Short, stocky identical south American Indian twins walk lock step, each with an identical baby in arms, their jaws grimly set, side by side down the Mission District’s cluttered sidewalk. I shook my head at the oddity of it—like a quadruple clone spanning two generations, they wore similar colors of clothing, and clutched their children as others hold purses through dark rain swept nights.
The precedent of fickle choices rewrite those who desire what’s uncompromised; we actors want to be associated with the unknown possibilities of our professions. Rewriting the language of the word we call LIFE, is the rally point of film. One picture lasts a twenty fourth of a second not counting the negatives between—question: how do you define ‘focus’, without hitting the key frames of ‘flaw’? What is a flaw? Is ‘perfection’ if it exists, even desirable?
Every art piece is spurred to life by an archetype piece the Gods have long since endorsed. Old ideas were ruthlessly hijacked by eery means and malevolent hands, to enforce their vitality in the world.
The mercenary rap artists laughed when the heard their music videos made young teenaged girls 57 percent more likely to engage in risky behavior, and how can you blame them? Lie to profit, and if you believe enough, you aren’t lying. Ask the religious leaders, and the heads of state, if (in a perfect world) it applied. I wondered if the rap artists wrote anti bush rhetoric if the record cokefiend executives would see how the brutal public opinion would polarize them out of a job. After all, the president’s a dangerous Stalinist fool, unacquainted with higher education’s embrace of ignorance. He makes no
mistakes, because God fuels his hubris he’s chosen for this holy mission, to liberate the forces of evil intentions, to subsequently nail them down. Too bad the mirror’s broken, and we’ve inherited his years of bad luck. You’re too right.

It was four o’clock in the morning when my house mate accommodate the silence with stories, fueled on a crack pipe unlikely hippies dispensed on the dance floor’s manna of endpoints and starts. I thought it was pot, she laughed. And we both giggled, then cracked a bottle of wine, irregardless of work in the morn. Car headlights ripple through Edwardian era glass, spraying dreamy crinkles across the walls, and the radio played old seventies tunes, we associated with junior high crushes. The carefully erected boundaries began to collapse; I was laying in catatonic repose, unable to move two days later, every muscle cell tired, but my mind alive. I cant’ use it. Wanna go? I knew nothing about them, except Victoria, whose life passion was live music, sleuthed the little known musicians of fifteen states, raved about them. No pressure, it’s just that ... The reasonable part of me said no way. You’re twenty hours of sleep short this week alone, you stayed up till dawn, partied like a rock star, worked all day, and had the flu. I lay there quietly, awaiting my intuitive voice. Get up before you’re down to the count.

I sit up; you’re rallying?! Why not? It’s just dumb enough; and with it, the evening begins to reach out, and ratchet us up—the mutual reluctance spurs a growing passion, for each of us were right on the edge of puttering an evening away, succumbing to the reaction of counting how few hours of sleep, and how many hours of work (need to be accomplished still, to validate us [internally] and so on. Riding though the drizzling night, retracing the spin of my earlier commute, radios blaring over our heads, we cut a chaotic freeform path, die hard biking everything wheels can run over, pausing for a quick one we pour into a water bottle, and sneak inside. At some point I think : I can’t believe I’m doing this. Where is this energy coming from? Then I realize, the answer is : The Dance. This is the proverbial, we’re entering early on, being completely abandoned, as we will be inside the venue, where the band provides a focus we recognize as ecstatic. It’s no longer your energy which is fueling the endeavor; the universe is subsidizing your passion with its source code, for truly, they are one in the same thing. When she dances, Victoria is a flame which burns with all the things humans find worthwhile. We go inside, and she immediately runs for the stage, where she hides to the side, pretends nobody is around her, and gives the full force of herself, to the band members, as a gift. I’ve been transported to the very place you’d want to be, ushered there spontaneously, on the wind of a gift, and I realize ... if I had a lot of
inemoney, I wouldn’t be here in this state, mind exhausted, and body opened. The idea of the wasted ticket, how seldom I let myself indulge in films or live music, the fact I’m exhausted from work a wealthy person, wouldn’t have to endure ... I might have taken a taxi, not ridden by bicycle, which engendered something ... who can isolate divine states’ ingredients? That dive bar we stopped in ... the people next to us ... I was transported to the paragon of the edgy New York club, they feel was a turning point in art history books; we imported its state, as did the musicians, others would mention with awe, years later. I felt suddenly glad for the maddening turmoil and poverty I’d elected to live, pursing art.


The place is teeming with souls; the smell of reefer wafts from scrums of stoners, people dutifully cue to check their coats and packs ... five bucks?! Fuck that, and I toss mine behind the amp, which warmed it with music for later. If I had too much money, I would have dumbly stood in line, and had my enthusiasm zapped, both going and coming. Victoria has a vodka-something in one hand, and a bottle of water in the other, offers both as the musicians pause
There’s plenty of time for that, when we’re part of the ocean again.
The vibe is decidedly uptight, but likewise loose. This is odd subculture, the musicians and music goers nod and know each other; the comment on N’arlins Jazzfest this year, the energy is high, but few people are dancing; fear invades thousands who want to. In our culture dancing’s a learned skill, not simply something you do. I can feel everything occurring around me; I block it out, and sonically concentrate on the sax, for dancers seek the state forgetting what they look like, or how they should move. We all court the wellspring which moves us, when we stop thinking or looking at ourselves.
[dude behind me, dude to the divisive side, woman erupts, shockwave moves forward, speaking without words (beautiful black spirit woman) aggression akido resistence, sharing, cool and trying to, encore energy, one absorbs by radiating, one exudes. Life in the beautiful people crowd accepts or promotes a controlled narcism, where this live music scene, tolerates less crowd hubris.

Looking us in to us

''GCRT J1745-3009 will cause a stampede of further observations,'' Shri Kulkarni and Sterl Phinney of the California Institute of Technology wrote in a understated manuscript to-be thatHyman plus colleagues were discovered studying aberrant observations made by the National Science Foundation's Very Large Array radio telescope in bonny New Mexico—though perhaps more important is a distinct possibility the big radio heavens contain other fast radio transients (which, in anticipation of a trove of discoveries, we nickname 'burpers')[and so-on] for as we know infinity has to fit somewhere, and where else but in all things, manifesting when you least expect them to? Truly, the privations of celestial bodies are only now being divined.

finger in the light socket, she told me ... how she coveting peak experinces, like drugs coming on ... I flicked the needle; the cat jumped. Spirits. Eyes dilated, it looks around frantically, small electric bolts sending its tensed body into the air; we open ourselves up. Feel the presence. The needle, sharp and weeping a drip of seminal fluid, the skin. How elastic it is ... resists the invasion ... slow plunge of 48ccs. Disturbing white noise music hisses us into submission; no thought is possible anymore. Pictures explode inoperable to words. The spirit resists its own completion; the awareness of its intent purports itself to places wearing the death robe, as far as the ego is concerned. The cymbals rattled our mouth roofs; today I found one in the street, I wanted to tell ... who? Myself. I’m listening, the memory betrays me.
Can I have more: oh I shouldn’t. It’s free. I can’t/what’s stopping you?
Tabla music, the eternal destination breaks the house of the intrepid adventurer in two, the collision of purpose plays us, thoughts as fingers moving faster than the eyes perceive, the arithmetic of beats steam-roll measures. Have all you want. Which sounded good, until dawn arrived, and with it, work. The frequency of times wasted eschew the times embraced; she of nearly beautiful-girlfriend status enrolls in the early fight to the airport for jazz fest; I gather my construction tools for worse of better. It begins to rain. I realize—everywhere we trundle our problems, they multiply. Asleep while awake, I walk into walls of my making, wondering how I can charge for this malfeance; what’s it possibly worth an hour? The self hate of doing little to tangibly vector the world for peace add universal love weight of which crumples me, leavces little room for debate. The sublimity scars those who see it, better to remain blind to wisdom which unravels you/or so the popular culture why do they run the show whould have us believe. Like a bad drunk at the jukebox in a run down Irish bar, we swipe the airwaves from larger versions of ourselves, and brand our lives with the music of oblong spheres, grinding against each other. And that’s when I remember the light well, filled with the remnants of planes with spilling smoke from multiple wound out engines’ gallant flameouts as they spiral down. That light well.... symphony of high acronym in multitasking action. I stuff my hand into its shallow darkness, and feel around. sure enough, three little parcels. I have failed and passed the test, as traps arrest those it needs to. Quite ominously, one appears to be gel acid, one is a small rock of ice or is it?+ and opposite it, folded onto the archetype origami or glossy magazine wrecktangle, is ? A ubiquitous white power ... would get you high (supposedly) but how? I think of mild mannered milk mothers, who dose themselves with increasingly levels of arsenic, to level the playing fields; or false tears and french fires from overactive deep fries.
esty hyperactive rats have chewed the Victorian parlor door bottom to white lead bits; I set the racy high tech electrocution traps with peanut butter, and left them off, to lure the wary into placidity’s sake; the government would apportion ‘black’ funds to study this process. I cut into the small rock portioned to test this very moment and finding only minimal guilt or fate snorted proudly or profundi/did I say that? Righteously reading the romantic riot act to hands and knees cleaning the toilet Is This Your Passion I old school tore through a half lifetime of minor menial tasks, playing outdated seventies power bands as if I had any choice in the matter on the one radio station the sub basement of providence provided. MacFrankZappa piano solo blow up doll stripped to underwear on the drums sweating profusely, scrubbing overpriced marble of paint spills lacquered by amped up workers frayed on this very substance, working fifteen hours straight on did you notice Styrofoam cheap coffee. Jeeze/how easy I it to see the folly of working straight when it concerns things you don’t care about? The chop saw lusted after my fingers, full with blood. Zappa clay-mation Baby Snakes to mind. Have you seen that shit?! Jesus Christ /the semi sister cats sloped in. They yodeled ballocks and bloody murder as the tornado tsunami shop vacuum son of Lucifer came on. But who wouldn’t/a major sonic disaster/turn that fucking thing off~the fresh greens salad has slimy-wilted in the plastic stay breezy fresh bin—even the imported balsamic won’t cover its gaminess, but I forge on. Oh blessed are the sufferers, racking themselves with relishingly gregarious supple branches. The clock spins to five, and I slice into the ever-diminishing rock again, enthusiastically pursuing the paragon of type A personality.


That, and the insane blatancy of perfume names strikes me dumb. Have you smelled this shit?! Here, fold this back. Look at the athlete on the picture ... what’s it called? What’s it remind you of? Deodorant. Yea. Hence it’s name, Adrenaline. Look, that’s one of fifty I ripped from a glossy, high priced magazine. They’re serious about this shit! Coca cola bought out the local organic juice company, the auto concerns dismantled LA’s pubic transit system, the government’s owned by the legal system its corporations put in place, add the narcissistic, the religious fanatic, the power hungry, the greed-wracked, the petty, and the infantile burgeoning into frightened pubic officials at an ever-increasing rate. This country is going to the god damn dogs, before it fully arose to challenge that archetypical fate. Nobody really knows what to do with freedom. It’s a cycle of getting off one boar racing through the forest, and mounting another headed the other way.
The administration of government is sculptured for robots, not visionaries. Common people are clearly afraid of geniuses; why else would women be so suppressed in this culture, to mention a sliver of the world? The glacial pace of people’s ability to change their dogged moral and emotional codes is historically, only altered by wars and temporal economic blooms. You for instance, are worthless. You’re right; I have ideas at such an accelerated rate, it’s impossible to pit them against each other, let alone put any into effect to the extent of satisfying myself they’ve been deeply considered, or functionally probed. No wonder acid’s too much for you.

death breathes sanity to life

[unedited]

The early departure deteriorated into coffee fueled mania, unpacked and the car’s vacuous battery flat again, madly stringing wiring across the embarrassingly-cluttered garage shunting 12 volt power sources together. It made me consider the girth of stuff I inhabit, and how much of it makes me beam with gratitude. Precious few items, I’m sorry to report. Survival tools and art supplies; a water under the brink of something more profound ... the starter sickly moans over; I hold the pedal an increment down, and pray for a miracle. Ether/spray the hell out of it, clean the terminals, clocks’s in motions we take for granted, abusing our spare time/stutters to life. Work the pedal like CPR to a drowning victim ... Breathe! Live! Massage its feeble pulse to life. Slam the sickeer into first, and foamy-mouth out of the garage, forgetting a wire or two. The hot decadent pop of an electric spark vaporoized old oil under the carriage, a rather anachronistic term I decide, cursing my coat pincered into the door mechanism foiling my spritely exit and ineffectively grabbing the hand brake all in one
My beautiful girlfriend was invited, but I felt the tone in his voice ... this was a boys’ weekend. I wanted her along, but in reality women often ruin the sacred bond between men eating sardines and sleeping on scorpion-infested dirt with perfectly good sheets, minus a tarp or pad. It interferes with men’s halting attempts at bone headed honesty, not bathing and ridiculous stints of silence or alcohol consumption, often combining the two for pleasant, long-term degradation of social skills, as if their bank was full in the first place. One feels a little guilty, though pleasurably so, landing at roulette-wheel strips, deep in ruts and gravel, usually reserved for planes designed to do such things, knowing the passenger in back instead of thrilling in it, is hardwired to terrify, to protect the coming sons and daughters whether or not there are any. But truly, my beautiful girlfriend isn’t like that; and she is. The duality fights the light the dark perceices as itself, and her mind acts under the illusion it controls the armies of either side, knowing secretly, it defends the weaknesses it seeks to exploit, thus defining the battle’s sides in a war nobody understands. It’s all rather complicated, but anyway, we had a boy’s few days in the blazing Saline Valley desert, leaving when the air was cool and dense, my heart skipping a beat as the aging plane ate the short runway and didn’t find air. Thank god there isn’t another person in this thing; so it all worked out okay? She asked me later. Yea, we got our requisite brush with mortality, and I told her about the dirt biker somebody found, his bike folded like an accordion, broken shoulder, the works. The paramilitary airlifted him out in a decked-out copter that blew and sucked so much dirt, it was a [borax salt] white-out. I remember feeling sorrier for the machine than the dude.


The shocking silencer of heat, rock and space borders the jagged mountains and melted hills, wild uncontrolled runoff, purpose and chaos, entropy
Torpor and time travel
erodes your thinking to dust Channels alluvial fans
Our road is endlessly washed boarded scoured and destroyed
Time hands itself to you Geology beckons its mystery the undying
muttering your ears hear as hums from amplifiers busses horns machines
warns the special parts of your brain it’s about to perceive
something dangerous indeed.
Phantom jets arc hard knife ends afterburners on strafing the military airspace the ground defines fifty feet off the deck. The molecules of atmosphere bend and scream with the hollow space the exuberance of a pilot has left we look to the trail of sound the jet long since gone And return to the fragile shade of the date palm The ensuing silence burning our ears again.
How was it? Fabulous, except my skin’s so white for That ultraviolet blowtorch. I wanted to be black all my life; did I ever tell you that? An old parable: Whatever you want you aren’t. Or rather, perceive you aren’t. That’s not a full sentence my great grandmother moans from her brane, in the other [more] civilized dimension. Yea, oh well. Some must be broken and some must be saved. Not all can live in the falsity of the finite space we forget to expand, to see further still [and overfill with complexity]. Did you meet anyone? Yea, this artist, and his sixty seven year old friend who loads and drives big rig trucks through the jammed streets of Oakland. Dude looked like late forties, half the age of the man of leisure, who’d struggled as a painter all his life, traveling the world knowing who’s who in a dozen artistic creative realms. Fling low over Death Valley and the devils racecourse I speechlessly absorbed colors, and tried to keep the previous evening down, tipping wings to examine infernal mine holes, bored by men hewn from a different age. I thought, all that careful thinking aged the artist. The edge walked by those who thirst for civilized life but court madness, if you separate the two, is intense. We talked of the painting of Icharus falling burnt from the sun, into the sea inhabited by polished society, on a grand gleaming ship, blind to the divine spectacle while calmly waiting to see it ... what a metaphor we sense we inhabit, a ...



... cork of assumed splendor bobbing above an unfathomable depth and under a vaster-still heavens, itself a sea, with a sky we only imagine, in the dreams of our dreamer’s dreams. Miracles occur every instant, and we decided long ago, which ones’ shadows we’ll allow our enshrined selves to see. He did Escher-esque surrealism and filled my brain with relative wisdom, broiled by the mid-day sun; the deafening silence afterwards was sweet. The desert deux knows its reference outside of its horizon inside us, and occasionally braces itself on itself; this omen is humanity’s union to come. That’s rad. I wish I’d met him. I wish you had too; but chances are ... and here I hesitate, neither of us would have, if you’d ... yet she’s not bullied that easily. Of course we would have. Togetherness is all-important. Love inspires miracles. Which I agree wholeheartedly in; no buts, she says. I try not to say but. If you seldom get out of bed, and mostly sit with your significant other, how often does jarring silence, or spontaneous diatribes with total strangers occur? She agrees, which warms my heart. Loving select beings is a form of training for a larger, scarier state. Mostly she says, but you’re afraid of its other way around. To you, togetherness [on an individual, romantic level] is a form of death. Isn’tit? I add.
I hate you, she says.


I got my fifteen minutes of glory on a glory hole wall, in the midst of creosote bushes dusted by savage winds. Apparently, my photo, carrying the aluminum body board weighted with the moaning dirt biker, was tacked to the vertical, just above the toilet paper. Damn. I said. Famous at last. Are you sure it was me? Definitely. Well. Isn’t that apt? Don’t degrade yourself; examine the metaphor closely. You think all your good deeds go out the window; the narcissists abscond with them, wrap them in silk and suck the life from them. The need to be true to something you can’t explain is suffocating; there is little to recommend it. We conjure self-satisfaction from a glacier of acts against those who followed the lemmings over hidden cliffs few reconnoiter calling for help from ... but what son of whose daughter remembers Darwin’s wacky grandfather, who grandfathered Darwin’s theories to life? And what of those, who taught those we’ve ordered into forgetfulness, for the messages they offered? I want the shriek of the siren, the man said. I would sooner give my life work to strangers, penniless but reverent to art as I see it, than those who seek color for walls as empty as their bookcases, as their heads for why the world works as it does. Ultimately, I seek those who passionately feel, and in knowing the dire delight of the devil’s bargain we walk the exclaimed delight of, lies and truth compounded into unions we ponder in moaning, morphine-stricken dirt bikers ... that’s where I lost him; and yet, I didn’t. Insanity. The sane. A Morphogenesis between them, inspires us to greater heights, seditiously expanding out from in, redefining the imaginary we mathematically describe to protect us. Look at him, the artist says. He is an oxymoron; he is jaded and innocent in one; he has no age ... I had to agree. Idiot savant, or teacher extrordinaré? No ors here/there I’d say, and you’re right, is that meaningful to you? That’s why you are unknown, and I am poor.


Those who influence those who are known are known by the few who need to knock on their doors. IF you have a fame which blocks the way to those you need to find, harnessing you in fear of no personal freedom to exit what’s known, how have you served yourself? The impossible requires space to manifest. Better to ream your passions patiently, until they epoxy themselves into covers nobody could suspect, before you realize their pages are free, and in ways only ‘gods’ know, you habit them freely and easily. They are not a binding; they conjoin at a gift the wary need to possess. Is that what you mean about love, I ask her. In a wager, I’d say yes. He had a quote with a grateful hue to it, I scrambled to remember—we were talking about galleries, and initial shows, how a vittle or two and some wine is a public service for your fellow artists. "An artist can always use a few hordeurves, if they’re a good one." I wondered if he’d parroted that line (like I hope to?) eventually forgetting its original instant. His quote was a flame; I hesitated to put his name behind ... especially since I hadn’t registered what it was, if he’d bothered to utter it.


The most interesting movie I’ve yet to film, added to the long list of too many already I’d want a crew and a bankroll to begin, involves a work of art. It’s the time-altered story of everything leading to the first line of the first sketch testing a random idea tangibly, sped forward though all the iterations, mockups watercolors and whatnot, until reaching a final product, which is again the first line, handed to digital artists for collage montage color shifting filters cutting and pasting, and then, how it disseminates into the world, ending abruptly at a stranger, who thoughtfully retires to a Paris café, and makes a line on a napkin, or random scrap of paper, then drops it, somebody picks it up, and so on. Or not. The painting of you, and your life needs to be in not only a politically good gallery, but one that will show it. Part of your work as an artist is to reconnoiter the landscape, and find the place you’d like to reside, retire, to burrow in and become part of the landscape itself; where are you going to culminate the meager pocketful of magic beans you’ve gathered, to dress the sky? We must recognize the only art we’re making is our outer selves, by either deceit or accordance in what already exists inside us.

slow movement forward

It was nearly four in the morning, when the boy every girl wanted pointed to a party we underwrote with presence the night before, and said : I’m so pissed I’m not a girl. Why? Cuz those chicks lived for free in that mansion. Being pretty is actually worth something; someone takes care of you. The place was wall to wall with desire; I saw Susan in the corner, surrounded by men ... some wallflower making out with a rock star was too ravishing for words. Her, he said. Can you believe it?! Fuck. It sucks being a man. Frankly, I was shocked. YOU think that?! The guy girls droop over? Christ! What’s the collective doing, under our outsides’ noses? Every chick was tarted to the nines, checking each other out, as warriors might, surmising each others weapons, silently testing their armors’ mettle ... I ruminated on kilts, how the nine aphorisms were born [kilts have nine yards of fabric], and why each person was here. I next consider snake venom. The possibility the digestion of prey taught the biochemical toxin factory what factors of anesthesia stopped their preferred fare. The blatant sexual references of WWII cartoons reminded me where anime comes from; I sound the bottom of the idea people’s psyches had long ago been digested, and rendered into a toxin the chosen few have access to. As time goes on, the neurotoxin is perfected. What followed, was the inevitable degeneration into scraping all flat surfaces, licking mirrors, drinking whiskey, and sniffing rubber cement, was ugly. A four am walk through the howling wind of rain-glistened streets in uncomfortable dress shoes seals sobriety’s bargain; the possibility of escaping happy from other’s judgments appears just about nil when you awake after hearing the birds sing. A deep rich snowstorm of pink cherry blossoms swirls at my feet; the sun is falling all about me. Hung over on fives and nines isn’t a pleasant discovery with three hours' sleep/wake behind you.

the chill of pools in space

The blogs between the last two dates are located in a file called atnoon8+.pdf on the site www.daresay.com

"It’s weird ... I went to this bar with my wife after a sail around the lake, half lit on cheap boat wine, for a friendly pint or two, and the entire place was filled with women, watching the last episode of a prime time TV show." The idea of a bar filled with women, is enough to carjack any man’s attention, which on some level pisses me off, and hooks me, as you’ve undoubtedly already decided. SO I sit there thoughtfully dog-like, tongue out for treats, hiding my animal pants. Yea. The show was called The Bachelor. Ever heard of it? Sure, but never seen it. What guy would? Except I guess, it’s a wet dream fantasy, ignoring the fact you marry one in the end. So it was down to two, this hot-assed bitch, and this nice girl, who was stellar in the head. The typical choice, looks or brains, seldom both in the same body, anyway, it was Superbowl Sunday in there, the chicks working through every strategic move, every hair toss, and hesitation, the way she applied her blush, and what not. Oh, if was her, I wouldn’t have done that! Like the whole team was following behind them, cringing at every fumble and cheering at every step towards victory. Dude, that’s a ruckus for you ... the playing field of the sexes! The information betrayed something profound. I asked his wife, is that true? She gets protective. Well, sort of. But it was cute ... we were simply observing the farce of it. Like reality TV shows, the blending of farce and nonfiction, until it hurts, and now, even fewer people know the difference. All parody finds its basis in fact.
Don’t start your day with the paper, I told him. Why not? It’s relaxing. On what account? You’ll read about incompetence, war, and political carelessness. How the president listens to the pope’s parting message, is moved, then erodes our rights further, rapes the earth, murders civilians etc, in the name of the god he serves. You’re due for a fix of meteorites narrowly missing the earth, which coincides with the doomsday prophesy of numerous prominent calendars, you’ll imagine how everyone will run up debt, and destroy the world’s economy, go bezerk and shoot each other, how the Chinese are rioting now, because the Japanese handled wartime apologies badly, as if they are scott free, dexterously decimating Tibet. You’ll pull section after section of America going down the gurgling drain, molecule by molecule, led by a complete imbecile half the country elected because ... he stupidly followed the same narrow-minded course they did, and’ he’s like us ... except he isn’t, and isn’t that the farce. Very relaxing. An alcoholic megalomaniac rich kid con man coke fiend forges ahead with a damaged inept set of puppeteers, themselves puppets of something sublime most people are terrified coconspirators of, trashing the world in the process. Very calming, indeed. We are currently failing the test of our age, to be honest and include the unthinking masses in a long range shift of priorities they’re getting high1, and watching TV to avoid.

The melding of machines and people, from airplanes to submarines to aircraft carriers, is a truly ancient art. An enforced lack of [personal] space initiates a hive mentality, where individuals in a system identify with the immediate surroundings of intimate, personal and workspace blurred, to effectively blur their worlds into one unified form, which limits itself, or transcends its boundaries. This is animistic in the sense of machines becoming living forms, inhabited by living viscera, itself working in highly interconnected manners, as a complex array of machinery would. There exists a tenuous balance of stresses, not unlike what the current world exacts on large herd organisms, in which an efficacy of those who monitor the balance become tightropes themselves, as in the Sultana, steaming from Vicksburg’s carnage at war’s end ... Ala-kaboom! April 27, 1865 in the worst maritime disaster ever, the eco-structure of machine and tender in error result in boilers blown. Redundancy becomes critical to functioning, as individual failures affect wholes ... we can’t sonar people as whales do—proctor a sort of physical telepathy, which can read the health of any organism at distance. Nearly-different marine species rejoice upon learning of rival pods’ kills. "You’re so cuckoo." She affectionately tells me. How do you fit all those thoughts in your head? I throw out things like tax dates, and names, and just for the record, I don’t. It’s a wild runoff from a 24-7 storm whose bow waves are a ship a larger storm tosses and turns.

Metaphors arrest us.

[My dream:] Slow breath in; never mind/time restraints. The life of brilliant thinkers are more interesting; Norbert Weiner for instance, ever heard of him? Why don’t you ever talk about yourself? What’s the dream you were poised to explain? Who cares? I’m tired of self-abortion; I’m my own rune to seek, and muddying the airwaves hearing my overworked replays/All right, who’s Norbert? The father of Cybernetics who met a tragic end. (Like the 'dream', I’m thinking ... topics conjure themselves to segues nobody can predict.) Tracing of a ruthless father, no doubt. Uh huh. And the shallow, power-hungry wife. Next question : So what did he do? Founded the modern theme of our information age, some would say./Is ‘some’, actually you?
He loves to talk in the third person. Some part of him watches his moves, and berates him/do not!/yes, you do. He’s hyper-vigilant of things I DON’T EVEN BOTHER TO ACKNOWLEDGE no kidding, that makes


being conscious that much more difficult..
Large gaps of essential emptiness are filled with bright colors and underlines
he has a manic unexplained need to feel everything and save what’s valuable, knowing full well what is discarded will soon be the key to the puzzle he’s yet to properly define. The entire physical world is fleeting; vivid beauty is always appearing as fast as it fades away, and the two become one. He truly is the bee busily moving between flowers, sampling everything, and having to tear himself away, for once he’s felt the pulse of life a stone, or an art possesses, he is trapped by it. People go without saying; he attempts to tear himself open to see the good in every human being. It is a process of abandoning permanence without killing yourself. Can he find peace there? Is it good to drown in essential moments which can not be recorded, because you have to pay rent? Each minute he wrests from living fully, he grieves over, feeling it lost, as if it never existed ... there is not time to turn off, and complete robotic tasks, because your art supplies require money, and the galleries prescribe what to make, to support yourself, as the lure suggests is possible. Follow our bliss to the amnesia of what the vision was, which took you through the desert, to arrive at the ‘path’ you’re defining,
and so on.

The long
deposed marine scorpion
they claimed ate whatever it wanted to
came to mind as I watched the lines
chopped
on the boyfriend’s portrait
by dabblers descending into addiction.
The vehicle of transmission was itself a rune.
Layers of music washed the hidden acoustic of the razor blade, and the beer
and the cigarette in the phone cradle his glance
the termination of the rail ending whisper his third eye the phone rings thoughts become
actions
lower chakras avoidance
dependance Candide the flight becomes the round trip
to the departure point w/compass diarchy lost/horizons fighting
to arrive at the place we fought to flee from a panorama of hindsight to confuse the savvy and wary from themselves. She’s right; I can’t argue because the policy of right is a trap; I have to listen, and absorb. There is no spiel to save your father from his father’s lectures; they have simply occurred. It’s how we absorb their energy, that shapes our islands in storms. I know I’m distressed, and suffering ... that I’m blessed and divine. I’m rotten and torn about for the best possible reasons, that my life is my one and only; that I’m alone and surrounded by loving friends ...the diaphragm between enemies and lovers negotiable
space
is the norm and yet
I’m compressed to the breaking point.
I’m sorry for myself, and glad I relish this mess, enough to keep at it.
We re sitting here doing next to night meets day nothing, less than dreaming nonsense
or are we?
"I love it when the funniest little things are too funny." my beautiful girlfriend says as we walk, and I love that, like she said, loudly laughing. I’ve got to write that down; she is happy it’s caught and recorded, the smile other than anything else/ I write it on leaves, with simple scratches from twigs/instants ongoing/create missed instants’ moments/ . But who cares. It doesn’t matter but it’s deathly important; I have to hand it to you, when you let go, it’s like, fuck everything/you’re tortured by the matters you drop in a measured moment, to experience something else completely/I can’t do that/I’m structured. We pass a sign that expounds this, a neon red marvel SMOKING hissing its subtext from a dive bar, we loathe and embrace the vital depressants of the everything we accumulate, and try to case, or cast out. I like that/terribly blatant/the exhale of smoke is a holy act. My beautiful girlfriend is addicted to nicotine, and/or should she ask, or so I think I am? She is self-dedicating the deity trapped inside her, raging off the hook the phone ringing the beer I see the unerring truth in the rune, only now completed. "The occasional beauty of buying a six pack at eight am." I love that shit, right before he snorted the art up; it became him. Right when the corner stores open. Bi-Rite. Bushy tailed and well-partied, the tow equals the pull/hello? Who is it? I needed to know. We purchased the proverbial and threw the glass pipe in the garbage can at 8:11 am, 4-2-05. Why’d you do that? I’m finished, I dared to think, nothing said/you want more? Nah. When you’re researching something, you’re surrounded by it. That’s why you must choose your research carefully. I disagreed. It chooses you. You choose it. There is a mutual agreement to lean on the lease of a post you define, as fixed. That spot is ordained for your demise or enlightenment; and few souls threaten our politics, by finding a wormhole through both. It was daylight savings time which suggested we’d lost an hour, somewhere.

I like this version of chief See-aahs speech by Vi Hilbert; I listen, as I examine the Islamic Armlets inlaid with incised ivory-bordered gold, and say: that’s weird/I was just writing about him. Which speech? Ah, 1854, I think. Some reception, somewhere, before a treaty. Himler, in a culture numbed by greed, our heritage, looks like, we haven’t learned much. A workmanship of such exquisite detail, on arms for battle, literally! I linger on the shield, and sword, destined to clash about rivals, the opposition to wreck and disfigure, is that possible? And maul an armored soldier of intricate detail, weapons shielding the user from themselves, magical amulets blurring the void of art, and killing, politics and war. The detachment of the Japanese tea ceremony, the mandate of consciousness, each act present and prescribed, but open-ended. No tea ceremony or battle the same. They say attempting to copy is the accomplishment of the original attempt to copy something profound/in Japan, the copy is praise to a master, and the imitators, tending the force which drew the work to art. All assumed traitors are financiers of change; it’s important to take their cues without succumbing to prejudice. I tell her, Vi poetically constructed it, it’s an annotate version with licence. Oh, she says/I cried, it’s so wise and non-judgmental/is the original better? Not right now, I thought.

I need to escape the excruciating divinity of perfection, and am opened further to it, attempting to do so. Miracles of missed steps and blooming flowers are all-consuming; emotions are complex tracks in rock-once-sand, expatriated to pre-terrestrial critters, dragging themselves haphazardly on ill-formed flippers. I don’t think you appreciate me. You came in with a certain sense of entitlement, wouldn’t you say? How do you mean? The skies are certainly blue; the wind is perfectly still; why are we always processing things, rather than silently sharing persimmons, and basking in dropping pedals of pink cherry trees? Women are hurt when they chose a man, and he doesn’t enthusiastically respond (the way she imagines he should). That’s downright wrong. The shadows of budding branches are shifting slightly, as clouds scan the horizon; needles drop from a massive fir to a verdant ground. All day long, you say no to the men you attract. Every day, you adorn yourself to attract them. Do not! Look, that mascara the lip gloss and the tight sexy wifebeater top, isn’t for ... It’s for me. I love to look a certain way for myself. Dubious at best. Our hardwiring is to procreate and attract potent partners or mothers and fathers to mate with. We default to attention seeking behaviors. Well I don’t do that. I’m glad you have such faith in yourself. Most everybody I know does it, including myself. My MO is to do something great, and I suspect I’m tainted by a primal urge to be seen, as most men are. Yea, it’s disgusting. Don’t be so fast to judge. One reason we’re so glazed over with ego, is our egos are starving to be something society sees as impressive, and worthwhile. Let’s go back to the nerd: We will remove all the energy a.k.a. attention you receive each day from men, and replace it with ... what? Nothing? How would that make you feel? You’re so habituated to it, you hate it ... like an addict, must have, can’t do with out it, dying to quit. Although it’s often shallow, you are validated hundreds of times a day you are a worthwhile addition to the race. As a dweeb, what kind of applause will you seek to get? How will you extract that much energy from society to survive, in the way you have grown accustomed to? Perhaps the only way to feast, is as children do, with negative attention. In the distance, a plane floats over a lake. Or with scientific acclaim. You will do the equivelent of shaping your eyebrows, and teasing your hair to make your intellect valuable, to attract the attention of others, and feel worthwhile. Perhaps you’ll become a criminal, and feel smarter than those you swindle. You make this sound so cold and hard. Personalities are fragile things; our idea of self is an illusion for the most part, so men and women engage in a dance which goads and bosses them, grounding them into the projection society exploits, slavishly employing us towards the destination of our ends. You don’t’ think I appreciate you, because I can’t know the total energy of who you turn down. I am knighted in your eyes, because you choose me, from a crowd of tens of thousands. I don’t seem to appreciate my fortune. For men it’s a little different. How so?
I’m somebody you landed upon, who didn’t harass, pursue, or overwhelm you with hubris. I had no distance or attachment, didn’t get jealous easily, was fun, and had my own life. I was an individual, who ran his own program, and didn’t need knighting. I’d learned to eke sustanance from the world, without being noticed. As far as I was concerned, I was invisible to women. Their subtle clues if given, were lost on me; I am a lone wolf who delights in visiting the den the pack inhabits. Any attention I receive from women or men, is a windfall. It is a momentary blessing, not to be overused, codified, or relied upon. Nobody is knighted or ‘chosen’. There are not a hundred women licking their chops to possess me in two blocks of walking, I don’t feel valuable, nobody wins me in that sense. There is not an egg or two to fertilize, flushing itself each month. Kids for me are a nightmare of that much less sleep, and change to effect on a world out of balance. If I wanted to white picket fence, maybe things would be different. I’d be jealous and possessive, making you realize I ‘cared’. I’d try to measure up to the attention you frequent with others, who want to possess you entirely, as if that’s possible. Men are opportunists, because they have to get what you reflect, you receive so much of it. They are starving for the sustenance of being seen as valuable, however they betray themselves to project it, to receive it back, case in point, your perfume and mascara/ Stop talking about my makeup/why? Tithes to fish hooks net dinners; you have little notion how becoming a geek nobody dreamed of, would destroy your ambitions, and erode your notion of self.