Saturday, December 9, 2023

Mental knitting and weekend of loafing. "Into our lives, a litte rain..."

It's like, I was stuck in a music video, George Harrison's What Is Life, as I started the weekend on a somewhat dubious note, at an event for No Lives Matter, a thing about an ancient sea monster that took an interest in public policy making.  We all thought the ancient horror would be granted a profitable position at the Heritage Foundation, but seemed not in the interim, he actually wanted public office.

I pulled, in memory, a personally traumatic event, also, in the course of Free Association at a head shrinker appointment, and boy howdy did I need some of the air let out of my cranium.

I had knitted, granny-style, like a energetic little nerd, some words in a game show, a game show clue, correlated it to an acquaintance at the fringe of my circle, and immediately I felt anger.

It was two weeks of anger.

Going forward, I had to make a decision.  

Lest I, in the future, would face a loss of composure at the scantest combination of words.

Of these things, we have a "door man" kind of duty in our minds, as if our mind was a night club, and we can parse these minutia, pick and choose the things we let in our minds, and that, after the handicap of being limited in our view of reality by only being susceptible to what we perceive.  I mean, anything can happen, but if we don't see, or don't hear it, you know, out of sight of mind, an existential handicap of our perception of reality, that so rarely do we approach any matter in life with an adequate set of information.

But the thing yesterday, armed guards and the state representative actually had a Battle Buddy and all, and then, mere hours later, the news broke about Ron Oneal, that Lyndon Baines Gibb as he is in our circle, that Ron Oneal.  He had been terminally ill, under the radar, we hadn't heard, and then he went toes-up, head-first into the churning grist.

Friday, December 8, 2023

The customary sweetness, the afflection, and the Tao of Chris. Bonus Content: Some half-assed Stoicism.

It just simply flummoxes, these larger problems, from time to time.  Chris'll tell ya: its not worth your peace.  Chris knows.

It was all, "where was your customary sweetness earlier?"  And her, Batman to Trump's joker.

To make ammends, me cooking her favorite dinner, running a warm bath for her.

In the land of Nod.

Things you cannot control are called "indifferents", and you should hasten to ignore those things; and yet, we live in a system, a system of interconnections, such that the universe is tethered to us at various intervals, and we are bid to care.

"Aw look at that fat girl: she care!! ha ha!"

She had me crawl on the pavement under the bed of her little truck to check the spare tire, in the dark.  I had a pen light on my key ring and used that.  Pressure check, and all, and running the fingers along the tread, feeling the rubber was still supple with internal moisture: that was the thing that kept the rubber from weather-rot, the internal moisture of the substance.

"You know I'm just passionate about my ideas, Tina, baby."

The restless churning of the mass, one might can feel it sometimes, like an unquiet something, even in the quiet.  I could sit at sugarloaf on the entry road, where the volunteer oaks are like large bushes in the hardpack poor and drained Sandhills soil, and feel it, even in the quietude, that restless churning of humanity.

That's the thing, the affliction.  We don't just make petition for the brethren, the already saved, but the rest of them too, as unsavory and dangerous as they are--we make petition, that the scales fall from their eyes.

I think, what it was, a button was touched, an unusual little thing: that's what it was, an unusual combination come up at it put me to musing along a line that has some cobwebs, an affectionate little corner, where I keep my Japanese swords and things, my old stuff, the LTD II hood ornament and all that: Magic Mountain's box of memories.

I observe the Tao of Steve, and am in part perplexed.  I observe the Tao of Pat and am doubly so, perplexed, stupefied.  With enough caffeine, as an affectation, I approach the Tao of Chris, but these other, and really we're not using a Life Success yardstick, but a measurement of actual happiness, with no respect to circumstance.  "In whatever circumstance, whether I am abased or whether I abound..."

Thursday, December 7, 2023

I fear we whacked a Magic Mountain between the eyes with our newspaper.

Otherwise, just fascists killing fascists, they will chirp and beam into the rewritten history, but some of us know these were citizens participating, beyond gumment checks and so forth, with skin in the game, believing in a cause, which is an unction far beyond the MSNBC set that blames America first.

Grandpa built some of the boats, just like the boat that JFK was on in the Big Scuffle.

No amount of Conflict Theory justifies the "burn it all down" mentality of these newer people, the people that have been gifted everything, and I know, if I don't work, mayhap I won't eat, Democrats not withstanding.

This is the foil to the Trumpian "sustaining of the narrative", making a verbal vortex that feeds on our worst instincts, and Shane Hampford helping him along, with chin strap hair piece and all that.

They are but powerless to fall into the Trump trap and parse his inarticulate utterings, his broken narrative, to foil it to themselves, be that other side of the coin, and overall, I liked the CBS take of the Hantiberg interview, chin-strap hair, and all.

All in the name of an easy to write news story that services no one, convinces no one, no Trump voter, nor any Biden voters, but just checks a box: journalistic malpractice.  There has been a team on tv parsing J6 two hours a day, five days a week, since 2020, and that babble hasn't moved the public needle.  You'd think they would feel like public failures and go do something else, but they have contracts, Microsoft and NBC, throwing "red meat" to the other side, who incidentally, by and large don't even eat red meat.

Of three networks, the last in line.  Preaching to its own ears, and nothing more.  Convincing none, but maybe, just maybe, entertaining some that have that confirmation bias.

I fear they have awakened a Magic Mountain.

If you have ought against your brethren, you should forgive them if you expect miracles, forgive ought against them, tune-out Shane, seek an honest trade.

News Product that qualifies as neither news nor any discernible product of value.

A tale told by Democrats, full of sound and fury, only legislating close to election time.  Only worrying about pump prices for the commoner as the election draws near.

And Trump.

Feeding arguments, keeping it all alive and profitable, the endless news cycle churn.  His "victimless crime", that Newsmax defends, financial fraud, as it were.  And then Hunter Biden, that the right hates, name one of his victims, if you would.  Was it too victimless?

I'm only watching CBS news tonight and the rest of yall can go motherfuck yourselves.

There's your narrative: Ya got Jack and Smith, and CNBC fired Shep Smith a few years back.(I watched Shep's show on CNBC, and liked it.)

Let Nicole wear down her fingernails on her secret flesh on what passes for info tainment.

You fucking-up is a better narrative than any Trump story, I wot.


Jesus loves you motherfuckers, even though you are, in fact, a bunch of  motherfuckers.  Looks like yall would be grateful, but this shit, "God ain't real".  I don't have to prove God is real, but instead I challenge you to prove otherwise.

I done got some of the faith of Abraham, and I shall not be moved.

Magic Motherfuckin Mountain.

If I should forget thee, Failestine! And the tarnished hand.

The SDNY DA got elected behind a promise to go after Trump.  Voters wanted her to do that.

When asked about a future dictatorship by Shane, Don flubbed the question, I presume, intentionally so to sustain this cockeyed political argument.

Mar a Lago is worth a plate of beans to me, and not much more.

Dick Morris talking about, "but it was a victimless crime."  But a crime, though, right?  You did admit that on a national news network, that it was a crime that Trump committed.

"First you sayin' that you wanna step to me, now ya ass is screamin' for the deputy...."

Failestine, proudly raping and wooping it up, and now, hiding in the tunnels while the civilians suffer.  No amount of aid from France makes it right.

Failestine, I says, the Conquered Land, the Star Wars Cantina, the dregs of countries which themselves are already dregs themselves, the international rubbish and refuse, the darlings of so many college professors, led by oil billionaires, mayhap, and angry preachers.

Tuesday, December 5, 2023

The Water Oaks and the newsletter about newsletters: Winter approaches, even in the brilliant sunlight.

A rather coarse entry, I wot, a thing of appendages directed, time misappropriated and so forth.  Would I get those hours back?

And rude deposit into the blogroll, the thoughts of one that spent the day kind of floating between different fogbanks of thoughts, and ever shunning the popularity contests of the life online.

It was newsletters about publishing newsletters, targeted marketing messages about marketing services, and I thought maybe the algorithim had knelt down in abject pleas for mercy as I browsed about, and drowsily touch the screen with my finger.

The newsletters are free, of course, having no real intrinsic value to most of the prospective readers, even you and I, and the monetization occurring by slyly juxtaposing a paid advertisement into the newsletter copy, and that, advertising also speaking events and so forth, "conferences", the emptiness of the modern day Chitlin' Circuit--why the Christians tend to have multi-hundred dollar per ticket conferences, and the use tape of that to make television shows, freely shown, with other advertisements tack on the end, "buy my book" and all this nonesuch halfwitted grunted overtures.

There was a slight something, making my hike-up my pants a bit, covering my belly--my savings account, and take to the air listening to encouragements on the Grand Old Spotify, and I had a kind of ejection on my hands, a kind of abdominal bleeding of the spirit about the whole thing, in which being short of blood was a nice succinct way of explaining my lack of enthusiasm on the matter.

Winter some few weeks ahead, and the air taking an icy kiss--I remember accidentally cutting a doctor's hand with my thumbnail, it was a rude hit, I know, a bump as it were, and he drew his hand back as if touching a hot stove, and I knew my guitar playing bass finger's nail had broke the skin on his articulate little lotioned hand.

There were Water Oak leaves all over the place, and that chicken energetically fussing about, surveying the grounds, and the cats, lumped in place pretending to be in the act of generating warmth, but really, it was the warmth of seeming to submit to the weather, curled into a little know, each of them, awaiting the season.

Success coaches and wot not, making a business out of coaching success, making a success, in fact, of talking about success--making a dollar out of talking about making a dollar, like the newsletter about newsletters, with the advertising in the middle of it and the upcoming conference solicitation and all.

I once blogged about blogging.  Then later, I was a Mike Morris talking about other Mike Morris's around.  I had been a movie fan talking about not liking movies.  And the Englishman, but a homonym or something of redundancies and things, contradictions along the way, process taking no discernible form in its advancement, but progress just the same, and always, forever maybe, having moved along, while also being strangely denied any sense of satisfaction in the job being done.

Monday, December 4, 2023

Of the Wishing Upon the Blarney, and the Indeterminate Hour, the Truth and the Ether.

Dec 4, 2023 9:00 AM

Who would have projected that in religious orthodoxy I would have found a vast trove of mysticism, “Sharing in the lives”, “constant spiritual generation” and such?  Who would have guessed, when the Pharisee and the Scribe have their way so often, defining Orthodoxy as a program of opinions and legal dictates.

I wished onto myself a malady–an accident, it was, as much as is unintended to awaken on these cool mornings, as much a happy coincidence of the universe that there was some kind of warmth midday, something–putting on myself a malaise, an “-itis”, as the negroids say among themselves, or a “crud” as the hillbillies put it to themselves, their sisters and cousins.  In fact, there was a controversy, accusations traded of Racism and Cultural Appropriation, as Alabama won the SEC championship, early Saturday morning a still half-drunken young black man had sex with his cousin, and upon bragging online, showing her in her underwear on social media, he ignited the firestorm, as various SEC citizens noted this was cultural appropriation, taking up of the white man’s, the straight white and southern of them, taking up their ways, the tried and true ways of cultural depravity, and that, visited upon the half-drunk black man.

A blind man pointing a stick, and Alicia sniffing the bark demurely.  This-our reality, and a malaise, a dissipation visited on my person, and I kind of imagined it into being, almost ruining the weekend, and certainly ending it on a lump of dysphoria.

December ran about our flanks and we were warm.

Hot bile in my throat, thinking to roll over on my belly, a long expellation of air from my gutty place, and that air, hot.  Something boiled commonly disturbs my stomach such that I almost avoid it, and I wonder now might it be the seasonings or something.

“Viddy well.”

“What is this new pleasure you have discovered?”

Not cursing myself, that is, but wishing on my person some kinds of less than astonishing blessings, willing it into being, putting my unction to the thing, some spleen and liver power, upon the visitation of such wishes to the dysphoric state of reality and the indeterminate state of being.

His was an indeterminate hour, as I have said, and such surety in purpose, a mistake of logic, and logic figuring in, a kind of self-imposed, painstaking system of relaxation in which men put some squarely to chance, but yet the whole thing, a set from a defined program.

To discombobulate reality and being at its very essence, I postulate into the ether that so much of this we have wished upon our own person, in the words of our mouths and the thoughts of our minds.

Thursday, November 30, 2023

One Gail King doll for an underpriveleged child.

Now that there is a "little black dress" Gail King doll, I can act out some of my fantasies, and put her in positions and places in which she would relent from in the real world.

"Now look here, bitch."

"Mike.  Mike.  Let's finish this interview."

"Let me go fill up Buck Nasty's momma's water dish."

Mental knitting and weekend of loafing. "Into our lives, a litte rain..."

It's like, I was stuck in a music video, George Harrison's What Is Life, as I started the weekend on a somewhat dubious note, at an ...