"vapid certitude", Boxey and Odetta, and the Jazz Workshop album.

Could it be, Lucillus, that idleness is the mother of invention?  And all our courage is really but the vapid certitude of an empty brain?

Is it Lucillus, idleness or perhaps even idolatry to some prior jitterling hatch, hashmark brain-graffiti that keep your hands from adept at your backgammon?

"Carl, watch Boxey and Odetta while I'm at the beach..."

Oh, Lucillus, what does any of it ever really mean?  For instance, the Jazz Workshop album, nearly every piece copies the phrasing of Miles's Davis Quartet's Tune-up in the initial iterations.

Boxey and Odetta have some hot bar pizza, Sun Kist, and some other, and require sundry little care else, but to make sure they haven't been engulfed in any prairie fires, or anything like that, controlled burns and such, or that the dingoes don't carry them off.

the Kalends of February....

 Gone to mirrorglassdarkly.com

Mittenwoche: The shizzle, the nizzle, and the jang-a-lang.

Ya'at'eeh.  

Bonan Tagon.

Peter Chase had come in and put his feet up, turdburglar and anti-Cincinnatus, and he was saying, "If I were not Peter Chase, I would prefer to be the master of the house."  And I laughed, not because I doubted his word, not because of the nature of his aims, but because it was so bitterly honest of him, and here at the end of the winter.

Little River had played at Hammersmith Odeon.  Where I scored the tickets, Chaffon, who variously had holdings in WMT, P and G, along with some other, I traded in some bitcoin, doing some shingling for some bitcoin jangling, some .25 BTC.  I wanted to eat some Tony the Tiger before I got done with the work, as per remembrances of a more innocent time.  I had ate Frosted Flakes until it finally gummed up my works, and that a few weeks after 9/11.

jang a lang, the thang a lang.

I was looking at a week of some dozen or so hustles, some dozen or so sundry paying tasks, doing things around, a sort of itinerant handyman, and a journeyman and all.  I didn't have a swerve like Peter Chase, who some knew had blackmailed a state senator, a former state senator who had represented Horry County(was I not supposed to say that?  What we all know already?).  I was yet a different breed of horse, and yet with the similar endgame of monetary gain.

Hustles, hurtles.  Sort of statistical omelettes, as it were, each one.

Vi havas bonan tagon.

she walks by moonlight: the knitting cicle, the chevrolet and Lao Tse.

The sylvan and velveteen lunar body.  Darkness, and glowing, as of the contrasting state of full buckets and heft, how the preferable abundance of the full bucket proved more difficult to pick-up than a lesser amount of water in the bucket.

It was Lao Tse who wrote that the Tao you can post on social media, is not the true Tao: a space as indefinite as that vast universe between your two little gremlin ears.

She saw the green Chevrolet; of what thoughts she may have had in those few moments, certainly I know not.  Dissipation?  Leg pain?  Dare I say... cunnilingus?

"He's good for a feel...."

I remember wing-meat Kevin threatening to hit me in the head with a two-liter bottle.  His smile at the time lead me to not take that seriously, realize the eventuality had not come near, but in his own way, the Silver Sable of the diaspora, it had its own sort of tangibility, his oddly-chosen words.

Of the hefting of full buckets, Lao Tse noted that a full bucket was more difficult to carry along than a bucket with less water.  And I wondered, of what was it, Kevin's internal madness, that made him choose a big drink to assault me; was it some kind of odd inflection point that spoke of his own madness?

He wanted to pour alcohol on his wounds.

Alcohol and EBT girls.

Lao Tse, if in a modern setting, would speak to the point that brain fog is sort of a natural expression of the Tao, and in that respect, Kevin made into a sage.  I go back to the George Long translation in which Lao Tse had mentioned that websites could not broach the subject of the true Tao, but only hint at it.  It was like my truck.  The truck had a set of so many two dollar spark plugs, and those cheap little spark plugs were the things responsible for making my truck sound so boss: why it was a case of the white hen and the red wheelbarrow, I suppose.

Of leg pain, dissipation and cunnilingus, think of it as the natural fuel cost, bodily speaking, of expending energy to stomp on Kevin--to do that, and leave in the truck with the self-same shook-up two liter soda that he had knocked my in the coconut with.

And I saw Christopher on the first day of Lent.  He had taken eye-black and made a target sign on his forehead.

--It was like the NFL, my little knitting circle, in respect to the amount of head injuries being passed around.  And Kevin's balls were underinflated.--

It was an inflection point for Chris, I suppose, that he put a fine point on the earthly province of Jesus Christ, according to some like the contemplatives.  Not a role model, but something within, already--that sort of thought-space, the province of Jesus of Nazareth.

Il Monstro, rural fare, gnostic speculations and contemplations.

What was it?  What was that?  I went from "Better Together" to the self-help book, "The Alone Advantage".  Bentonville and the man coming doing the mountain.

From the perspectives, dueling optimism and pessimism, one is either kaput or doing well either way--abased or abounding--with or without donations from the faithful.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Then trumping and stumping down the mountain, Abiyoyo, or something, Chupacadabra, disrupting and scattering the larkspurs and katydids like so many stray fronds of the common roadside volunteer foliage.

He was saying, "blessed are the sleepy", and somewhere above all that, the truth crept oh so close to the lips, whatever passed for the truth when was in the throes of a sort of personal indistinction.  "And if you found he had a brother, it would be like coming across a pair of shoes in a trash can."

He was hungry, first thing off the mountain, a bit of cheese grits and dried sausage maybe.  "Was the toast and cheese grits good?"  "Uhm, blessed are the sleepy."  Billy Butler, Neftali Feliz, Fausto Carmona, Taco Bill Weatherly.  A base-knock, and so forth, for the stats, for the team, for even the larger conquest of the game, and the 162 regular season outings.

We can learn such lessons from these Cheevers, these everyday things, as of the broadcasting of the mustard seed, some falls on mentally fertile ground and takes hold, coming to thrive, the gnostic message, I suppose, an admitted heresy for one to take note of his or her own thoughts.

Repentence itself was not the abject and outright denying of sin, but the renewing of the mind, literally "changing your mind", so could not the psychological model be a perfectly valid lens of interpretation?

They were doing a user survey over just south of Bentonville, and they tried to wrangle me, "caterwaul the truth, sir", but I didn't, not having enough of a frame of reference, "pits, stretch marks, and privates" and all.  And its all a thing, no matter one's knowledge base or whatever, his or her own frame of reference, and I was thinking that purely the truth comes across that some things are just not my problem, not at all, nary a jot nor a tittle.

At the proverbial tool sale tent by the sea.

 I was at the tool sale tent by the sea.

Abel Ferrara and me.

There were Nippon soldiers climbing the palm trees, tossing grenades and stuff.  Each man had a hand on his carbine and the other on his maudlin helmet.

"What low down ways" I thought, remembering some of the lead-up and all, Patrick Stewart declaring "year one".

I had prior had my own Year One, and is worth tallying up for the sake of absorbing life lessons from the various mistakes and success.  And I know what you're thinking, that if you read these pages, somewhere therein I will put an infographic of my tallywhacker, but no, the facts themselves are perhaps dismal, desultory enough to make the whole thing rotten enough for entertainment sake, for some kind of box office value or something, fair market value and all.

Spending some 85 million, and then, the same approval committee, seeing the finished work, saying it has "no discernible market value".  I can remember when a similar sentiment was vouchsafed against Aqua Man.  So the thing just gets rolled-over into the next Michael Keaton project.  "Second Unit footage." And all, like the let the Cinematographer be the Second Unit Director, and all.

tempered but nonetheless grand ambitions.

 You're thinking, "what is this strange new thing that I've come across?"  A grouping of squiggly talkie words that scream "shoot me!".  But letters on a page--they don't vex you--until you take them up, or as the charismatics say, "speak the words into existence", manifest something, as it were, then it was but one or two little churns of a larger process.

You can't find peace until you love someone else.  I heard that in a song.  I would say, "why did you date someone you hated?", perpetually hoping for some glimmer or gleam of improvement, that way of spontaneous combustion in the wild, where something just barkspangles into being.

Haun Sanity needs a safe space.

Here, you can scream into the ether, any words you choose, or pound the walls.  Perhaps draw stick figures on the walls with scraps of charcoal.

I watched Knightriders a few days ago.  A lot of the familiar Pittsburgh b-movie people, and an A+ screenplay on a low budget production.  I love the subdued but grand ambition of the piece.  King Arthur presiding over the Renaissance Fair, and I saw Patricia Tallman's boobs.  Tom Savini's finest hour as an actor, not to mention the scene with chrome codpiece.  And to think, I couldn't find this film in the home market for a long time, but it got picked up because of all the motorcycles, on the old Speedvision cable network.

I was sitting there using my productivity apps.  

"8 am.  Give ma a hard time."  

"8:45, rest, see what Poppy Harlow is wearing on camera."  

"9 am, Wagon Train."  

"10 am Joel Olsteen." 

"10:30 am, one cookie."  

"10:45 retell Joel Olsteen's opening icebreaker joke from his show."  

"11 am, belittle my father, insult his personal taste in order to make myself feel more superior and well-adjusted."  

"11:15 am, if not exhausted, see what Harris Faulkner is asking Jason Chaffetz about on camera."

"Rinse and repeat.  Treat yourself later to another cookie."

"Facebook harem status check."

"1pm(before more Wagon Train) count my money.(I'm saving up to buy myself a bicycle for my paper route.)"