Poem: Lysandra catches the rhythm.

Lysandra, a bonnie lass,

from fair Eire,

and she right fair too,

never failing to give a fellow a cup.

My intoning, Minestrone trailing from a nostril:

"your Walmarts will become graveyards".

Lysandra dancing in accompaniment,

moving her body this way and that.

The hell you say;

her stopping for some Hunt Brothers,

and me to aver

she shouldn't have her rathers.

From the grinding wheel:

a fleck, a flitter;

ornery men posting nude pics

of their drunken sisters.

Luke, from Kansas City,

come at it another way;

flinging ribs this way and that,

sauce on his shirt,

covering his State Fair champion emblem.

Coming back,

Lysandra pulled her garter

up onto one maddening thigh,

saying "what was that about Walmart, love?"

"My Walmart love?" I questioned, indignant.

"They built a hedge around her,

as if I were some kind of devil,

then filled the moat with Ethiopians."

"The Sandman" and Ben Fibonacci's Hard Determinism versus Migelli Bin Origen's elusive notion of "Free Will"

Fibonacci likes the finer things is life, and likes to have the inside track.  It's the kind of "eff you, I got mine" reaction to the world that has robbed the light from his own particularly pit of habitation, leaving him in a dark hole.

Cause to re-evaluate?

Migelli Bin Origen dictates something of a push-pull illusion of "Free Will", that he may be in a cage, or may not, but either way, he ultimately decides the paraphrenalia that surrounds him in his cage.

Case in point:  Bin Origen drew a big picture on 12-inchX24-inch board.  The picture depicted a non-descript man, faceless, boring the world upon his back, but being slightly crushed by the girth and the combined mass of precepts of the world.

Fibonacci, then, seeing this, takes to his own hand, constructing over an old picture of an orange.  A "still life", he creates a "steal life" of a figure "lording over the world" with the orange supplanting the earth and the figure seemingly being knowledgeable or in control of so much of the world's f*ckery.

"I need to hurt him" Bin Origen wrote in his notebook, right in front of Fibonacci.  Bin Origen saw at once the immensity of the disagreement between the two art pieces.

Enter Sandman.

In control of even the least of his tiny constituent parts, the Sandman stood at Marvel Comics as someone bent on improving his success curve(the "eff you, I got mine" mindset), but then after the body count piled-up, his own conscious convicted him, making me wonder if he was a sin-conscious Southern Baptist.

Barracus would say that "You on the jazz, Hannibal.  People get hurt when you on the jazz."  Fibonacci, meanwhile, would increase his own illusion of strength as his personal situation deteriorates into nothing, sort of a "comfort blanket" of being right and in control: a way of angrily confirming your own anger, a "confirmation bias", a segment on Hannity, maybe, with the precedent and the host trading gushing compliments back and forth.

"You're a great American."

"Look to the ass-end of the chicken, Bin Origen."

That last quotation was Howard Kirvonnen, standing for his own dignity, but being depreciatory in enough of a sense to make him feel quite powerful within his own little dog house.  People say nothing good came out of the Hammentrot Salons, but clearly Howell Kirvonnen, bemoaning that sentiment, made a pure scream toward underlining the truth as he saw it, and that amidst so many other pretty treatises on phenomenology that came from the salons during the intervening decades.

"I knew him.  He bore me upon his back I know not how oft."

Back to Bin Origen's drawing of the man shouldering the burden, carrying an obviously great weight on his back, but standing just the same.

Tell my wife I love her. On the "long swim to China".

The man,

with the convoluted,

the thing,

electrocuted,

turned inside-out

flitting through

he screams and shouts:

Burn the flames.

I just etted a good salad, but with a gawdy dressing.  And I used to know something about gawdy dressings.

I will be making my garlic/rice wine vinegar/apple cider vinegar/black pepper vinegar, which should help regulate sugar and sodium intake on all of these salads, whether it is professionally prepared or made by me, and I have considered the make-it-at-home option for all the stuff, not just the dressings.

Why the hell do these dressings always have either oil, sugar or a ton of fat or sodium?  Otherwise they tell you to use lemon juice, which is, vaguely citrus, but I can get the digestive benefit of the vinegar, plus some more taste with the spices.

Mama has a squeezebox; Daddy has rage issues/I can see for miles and miles/listening to you: The Who take over the Isle of What.

"juh-juh-juh-just talking abou-about my duh-duh-degeneration"

Even that saint from Calcutta would tear a hair behind all his shoe-squeezing.

Sometimes what came before makes demands on what should happen in the future, or even what should happen immediately next.

Can't we all just put some flowers around our neck(don't cover the nipple this close to lunchtime, btw), then swim jaybird naked in the Yasgar's pond?  Can I get a minute?  I need to check my bp because all this worrying and blood clotting nonsense, behind all this trouble and bother and do this and do that piled all up on the regular routine.

Seems some people think all I usually do is watch teevee.  Ask me, their projecting their own flaws and guilty recriminations onto an innocent person.

"Napoleon in rags, and the sweet talk that he used."

I was shopping online for uniform pants and shirts, meanwhile like 40 million 'Mercans out of work.  Needed me some pants and shirts, but also needing a pair of sneakers, and actually preferring some of the cheapest out there in Athletic Works(I change the laces right off the bat).  My last Athletic Works pair, I walked, ran and did everything else from comfort to casual, and even some formal use.   I use different places for shoes, but I use Aramark for my uniform needs, though there are other good choices.  I can get various styles and colors for a good price from them, and can get custom leg lengths.  Thinking of next seeing about getting my business name on the shirts for my little side hustle.

"go to him now-

he calls to you-

you can't refuse.

when you ain't got nothin'

you got nothin' to lose.

You got no secrets

to confuse."

You must fall so they can finally rise.

So much has happened since we last spoke.  I feel like I'm not even the same person now.

There have been

cloudbursts.

Spiritual

things.

And I was reading, a particularly Stoic section of scripture.  We might remember Paul disputing and debating with the Stoics in scripture, yet he also said he had to tailor his message for a given audience to promote the Gospel message, to "be all things to all people".

"I am a debtor to both the Jew and the Greek."

We don't give up on you, even if you've given up on yourself; I watched my nephew tear-up the other day, and I was thinking, "look what the expectations of the world did to this man".  And so I'm inclined to burn the world for his sake, to honor him.  To rough-up everyone else for my man's edification.

I ain't and won't give up on him.  Or Rick.  Does that sound like "Hope Springs Eternal"?  "Bros before hoes"?  This sounds like instead, you have one thing in life, after everything else is boiled away and taxed by the world.  All you got is a name, and you show it respect, no matter what everyone else thinks.

I know that boy has iron in him, somewhere, they just cut him a cartwheel, all them people around him, not knowing how to live, how to make it in the real world.

You might say I owe him a debt, and just because he was born, not for sake or by reason of anything else.

Anyway.  Any trouble I go through just makes my testimony stronger.  I think of the Hurricane, writing his memoir after being imprisoned all those years.  I think of the troubadour trying to capture the experience that he was living on the road, meanwhile just trying to sing stuff people liked, but having the real songs pounded at the edges of his skull, aching to get out.

Back in the day, 2015: I was the last one in the extended family to get saved, and its like, that accomplished, our matriarch could go home having completed her work, secured the souls of all her children.

But I aint forgot the lost and suffering.  The "sin sick", saying that, while we all a bit sin sick while we in this physical world.  It was Johnny Cash that even chose his stage clothing based on his attitude toward injustice and inequity.

Here I stand, a misguided Sandman figure, somewhere between the side of the angels, and rank villainy, caught in the switches and ready to bang against the sides of my cage, but also with eyes on eternity.  And I know some people, like nephew, get beat on and on by the world until they get mean.  I'm a long way from being really mean, thanks to being removed from Rockingham, NC.  In fact, I'm like the Jews in the diaspora that some of the saints wrote to.

"Consider it all joy when you fall into troubles."

"Tribulation creates patience."

"The trying of your faith builds patience."

And over a million and a half infected.  Gonna be more patients, Cheever, I wot.  And the southland just spread its butt cheeks for the virus, and all in the name of an idea, the idea of civil liberties, like its some kind of new Civil War, not fought with bullets, with their being an ante of PPE instead.

status 5/26/2020.

Hero Protocol initialized.

Hold onto my shirt sleeve Nattie, where going to fly over the City, with me Superman and you my Lois Lane.

Electrolytes introduced into system proper.

Preparing to exit through hold in wall that was left behind by Dr Wily during his escape.

Tai Chi session sometime next few hours.

Bike session later(see photo).

Morris Baddonov and Nattie/plus Alexa with a bowl of mixed nuts watching Melrose Place, with a copy of Shrimphouse Forum Readers' Letters on her knee.

What a way to heat-up the "usual suspects" of the Raw Women's Division, and also interesting to see they took center stage, partly thanks to the remnants of a  "breaking news pop" from earlier with Becky's pregnancy.  But we have a legitimate physicality-modeled championship feud, with it not just a mugging by the larger athlete, but instead another level of interest added.

Meanwhile, New Yorker Christian Cooper gets big cred for getting footage of an altercation with a stranger, in Central Park, that could have went really bad for him, thanks to some bad behavior from the other party.  I used to go to Central Park and get burgers and crinkle-cuts, but I never had a bad experience, which I guess might be part of white privilege, as Cooper's race figured large in his incident.

A bit of kayfabe.

Alexa, my patron of Bliss, was overly sexualized by a non-company commentator recently.  She shined the guy on pretty good, but really, he was just projecting his own sexuality on her work.  And she certainly does perform usually at a high level and do some moves of advanced difficulty, trying to elevate her in-ring work since her time as a "place-holder" champ or a "flavor-of-the-month" champ previously.  She's taking the basic treading-water of the division ranks to elevate her repertoire, which overall gives a lot of legitimacy to the rank and file in the Women's Division.

But she can't help being so darned pretty.

But at the same time, I'm still butt-hurting over the WWE hiring a pretty girl, putting her on the payroll, THEN trying to teach her to wrestle.  And some know who I'm talking about, even though some of us cheer her on when we should probably catcall and harass her off the stage.  We note that happened during the "women's revolution" which marred the whole thing, imho.

The battle for Wafflecanal: "Sin Like Flynn", "just a country lawyer" butthurt, and Andy's less benevolent face. Political round-up.

Someone was calling Guv Andy a psychopath for an earlier policy of sending virus patients to nursing homes during recovery.  Meanwhile he was being snitty about needing the Feds to procure him some ventilators, in a precipitous moment of butthurt over substance.

Someone was tweeting about Nan's dentures.  Something about using duct tape on them.

Trump noticed and jumped behind that.

And Joey was personally insulted, being "just an old country lawyer" or some crap that he says, going on and on stirring his own little washpot of skins every morning, churning that crap.

And its all policy, butthurt, smacktalk lacking substance in order to distract from current issues.  Meanwhile mainstream outlets are horrified over a lack of social distancing on the holiday weekend, and that while many of the MSM work from home.

We all forgot the earlier projection where the CDC was talking about 60% of the population being infected in the next months. They talk of holding the phone away from your head, so you can barely hear, having a "heard immunity".

A man's life often depends upon a mere scrap of information.  Cue the Herridge, pls.  From the intel beat.  What they did to Flynn, "Sin Like Flynn", scraps from the Thanksgiving table on the weekend dedicated to the military heroes.

Personally, I'd be more apt to vote for Jeff Sessions than Donald Trump.  Trump is a blunt instrument trying to hack and slash his way into the heart of America, but surprisingly he has a rabid fanbase that eats it all up.

Meanwhile, I could blame myself in part for the change in tone of the political discourse, despite having recoiled since at all the vitriol.

The Precedent is on the golf course this weekend, with beaches full.  And yet the Coca-Cola 600 grandstands are not open.  Someone remembered the face of their father in the discourse, and yet others were completely unhinged, scrounging to create a magic butthurt bullet, these being contrary to those, and those trying to thwart these.

Meanwhile, I need more virus reparations money for my success curve.

It's Covid 19, baby! The devil you know/the Mikl you don't know. Have after it.

She had like a neglige on her face, and she handed me something soft, a bundle of cloth.

I said, "what's with this, love?"

It was her panties.  I used them to make some coffee, and then I came directly here to brag about it.

I was thinking of like, when kids are playing stickball, and they here a car coming, then they wait, come back out in the street and say:

"GAME ON!"

Or former New Jersey Governor Chris Christie deciding his life of asceticism has lost its platonic charms, while standing near the donut section of the craft service table, and he starts growling viciously at anyone that comes near.

One need not totally deny the flesh, right?  I mean, isn't that the modern thing, to have a sort of vagueness in the creed, a sort of nod here and there to the flesh?  You cut the hay, but then you and first cousin can take a roll in the hay.

Joe being cavalier: the eagle that stole my peanuts

Joseph was on the block doing neutral drops in his tricked-out ride, with a big Sonic drink between his knees and a thumb in a devotchka hind-end.  His first cousin, at that.  Her wild-ass kids bouncing around in the back seat with fruited drink stuff around their mouths and Cheeto-dust on their little fingers.

But I'm sure his thumb was comfortably warm.

Everybody was like, "man, that's a bad ride, for real, yo."

Joey just smiled, and which you could barely see cause he was sitting like gangster low in the seat.  Most of all we could see was his bald head.

How black are you, Jo? Trade the Prius for a Malibu, bro?

Maybe I got some black in me.  Know I got some native blood, fr.  More than Elizabeth Warren.  And one of my great-grands had a black gf.  They even had his picture in the living room.

I know the struggle man.  Not your struggle.  But my struggle.

Drinking this iced coffee.  Just being this frigging cool about everything.

would you

could you

buy her an 80 grand SUV

would you

could you

give her the remote

so she can control the teevee

you remember, no doubt,

how i get out of control about it all

"Let them eat ice cream. The middle class." or "You want walnuts on that, general?"

Yesterday.

It seemed my boogaloo was here to stay.

And yet it can so easily flit away.

I had my eyes peeled, into this and that generally by way of the perspective, horizon line and all that, with the vanishing point being the Chesco workshop building and parking lot.  Then, out of nowhere, the buttocks of a woman made a kind of graceful curve, a kind of natural fluting, which made me think about running a few rows of summer corn.

I had my eyes peeled, and it was like, "that's the world, out there!"  I was puffing smoke out the window, too, but not as much as usual, by chance.  And I was thinking of the "living force", like the experience of life, and then set that in a kind of opposition to the "best laid plans of country club owners".  Is there fluidity?

Are your emotions dictated by the amount of pressure that is applied when you get stepped on?  I say that, in opposition to a design, that is, a design versus a looser kind of running, as of just having an off the cuff go at life.  Whereas yesterday went according to agenda, but there were some other things, nervous redheaded girls and stuff, stuff you have to keep an eye on.  Natural comfort of a man's shoulder, and all that, set her to right.  Can't run her away even if you chased her with a gun; hell, she'd just come back, and just as set in her way as before.

She'd just come back.

I have a book(more than one, actually) that pulls me away from this world, and it firmly applies braking pressure to that redhead, her screaming for all the world, to the moon and back, to have all the diamonds, the gold, and even start collecting the rust, too.  Then, with charms taking a back seat she settles into a life of growing her own squash in a two-bedroom house, feeding a neighborhood stray cat(having bought it food in one of her own rare grocery trips), and the world nary a step closer to being all hers than it was when she was something else, like an alchemist's trick that didn't bring it off in a better way, no better way than making her give up and just wait between sleeping sessions.

Just a prisoner, but not even bothering to mark-off time because she doesn't know how long the sentence will last.

The world for a smiling face.

"you might think I'm lying, but..."

Uncle would often say, "you might not believe what I'm about to tell you."  And then a strange somewhat fantastical story would come out, right between me and him in the little truck, some recounting of a weird even from his life.

Would you have believed me last year if I had forecasted the shutting down of most of the world economies?  Because of a virus that kills under five percent of its sufferers?  That the world would be on fire, with alternating calls for caution and that the deniers would be the New Tea Party?

Ride with me on the four-wheeler a minute, while I ruminate.  Let me fill your ear up.

A stimulus to be handed out in April 2020?  Too far-fetched?  Couldn't imagine the circumstances?

Well, look outside your window.  The world has taken a turn, mortality heightened, mistrust, with the same old brutal vicious political divisions.  Trump basically banned from Ford plants for not wearing a mask.

The world figuratively on fire.

Extra food stamps added on while food shortages loom, so that the grocery stores empty-out, for sake of a good news story.  Farmers paid to destroy their crops.  "Fake bird-flu" in poultry farms as product demand plummets.

Mitch McConell on the PC playing the old ID game, Doom, the original, and about to die at that, his character left in hell to roam as a spirit.

I was watching the Salad Shooter infomercial, and they were all like, "prepare to be amazed", meanwhile I can feel my balls creeping up in some kind of stupid anticipation, and for that I'm partly hating myself, that I've been made to care about such mundane matters.  Then ER came on, one of the first few seasons, with Nurse Hathaway, me wondering if she was f*cking Doug during that time.

And everybody thought they made a good couple, like they together filled in each other's gaps, but such things are rarely the way it all goes down in real life.  And you Melania has her own bedroom?  Why would you marry a model then put her in her own bedroom unless it was just a trophy wife situation?  Arm candy?

Anyway.  I was calling the number for the Salad Shooter, with credit card in hand, ready to seal the deal on this bad boy.

a look back on "The Plan": the Cylon strategem for eradicating humanity

"Will we get him?  Finally?"

No, Cheevers.  For he is not of this world, the One.  Number Six is tossing rolls of toilet paper in their way, too, keeping the fiends at bay as they stop to pick up each roll individually.

"Can't spare any."

"Not even a square?"

"Can't spare a square."

We are observing a different timetable, a resumed countdown to annihilation.  This is not the Democrats and the Republicans, but you and me, uncommitted voters.

This mutha spittin'.

Number One is still partly removed from reality, partly not, having only a few schizoid perceptions of the real world, like McConnell not wanting to pass a new Stimulus, and the big girl with the pretty smile at McDonalds.  So you see, its not all bad, but it is a Pollock of the world.

It was a lie agreed upon by all of them.  "Dogpile Frenchy" they told each other, but the Friendly Ghost had yet to make his will known.  Then it would have been uphill, but if only he agreed with their crazy plan.

Meanwhile, he further separated himself, divorced himself from the unpleasantness, as much as he could.  MP3's blaring.  Customers screaming random obscenities in the parking lot.  International Chicken sandwiches for lunch, which he ate in the truck, not even really wanting even to roll the window down.

Gone to the mattresses.

The superman.  King ding-dong.  Magilla.  The Abber.

Couldn't get it straight in the real world, how things went down, how burning buildings collapse, and all that.  People wanting the truth, but seeming to want to accuse.  China being mum, and as always, "Your Mum rates Natalie".  I heard this all somewhere before, maybe even before it happened, as of a briefing to a political leader, but when I heard it I said:

"That'll never happen; its too far-fetched."

9 pure-bred bastards in Department 12, "but they ride like there are 150 of them."

a donut butt-cushion for the congressman or "fix my road, milkies, RTFM".

Congress wasting time while America crumbles, and still they talk of crumbling infrastructure.  I even remember former Charlotte mayor Anthony Fox tasked by the Obama administration, and then a news black-out, as they fell into inactivity.  It occurs now that "crumbling infrastructure" might be their code for building new pet projects, like the Kennedy Center, instead of what a lot of Americans think of:

ROADS.

Again, folks, that's not what they're talking about.

A leisurely week of meetings before even considering a new bill.  The "omnibus mentality" of sticking in pet projects in the overall package, instead of being more single-issue about the whole thing.  And yet there was a one-off SBA loan bill for small businesses.

They all, the GOP, sat back while Democrats crafted their own bill, sat back for political purposes, knowing the Dem bill was something that would be silly and unpalatable for mainstream America.  So the GOP hung back and waited, spending precious time, with millions more filing for unemployment, playing the political game.  Meanwhile, Mitch did get that priceless moment of the Dems having egg on their face, while millions in need begin to further tighten their fiscal belts.

The Flynn distraction taking center stage, and then the IG firing, while Mitch picks out a few wishlist items to put in a new bill, and then doubtless, another week, with America still on fire, while the American Congress finds grounds for agreement.

Meanwhile, the folks still clamoring, re-openings or no re-openings, waiting for relief, and meanwhile media hatred and his own 9-11 block on Fox pushing him into taking heart attack pills to ward off Coronavirus.  Lorie was saying something about giving people positive news, and I'm like, "when did that start?".  Usually they just counter the media, which is a dangerous, sometimes misleading, but always confused strategy for a television program on a news network.

But at least they don't have to pretend to like Don Lemon.

the first one out the door, first to the killing floor

Clinton Youngblood had run to the village of Maranatha to tell of the Red Coats coming, but having run the 26.2 miles from McKinnon, he had no sooner got the message from his mouth, having barked it out between great gulps of air, he fell dead of heart failure.

Dr Josh was busy inspecting me for a Parkinson's tremor, along with other symptoms, like imagining my pets walking around the Walmart parking lot and other things.  I was having something like Dyskinesia or some ridiculous Latin/Greek thing from a moldy old medical book.

I was on the way out, when Harvey Kirvonnen came by me, brushing against my knee with his shopping cart, almost rudely, but you could tell, he was really just focused on hauling the mail.  But I thought to myself "f*ck you, I got mine", right Harvey?

The first one out the door, that "fast ass" will be the first in line for the sh*t sandwiches when Uncle starts handing those out.

Meanwhile, the rest of the world a brushfire, and myself, but a rabbit in the brush, burrowing.  I was thinking how our experience builds a kind of credit, but its really just a perception, so in other words, we can turn away from it and feel generally lost, as if the road from there to here was just wasted time.  But I tell you we must defy that feeling and learn to stand when appropriate, to shake off the dust and put on the athletic shoes.

Michael J Fox has Parkinson's and you think, surely he didn't DESERVE that, but that really has nothing to do with it.  Good things happen to the bad, bad things happen to the good, and as Solomon said, "rain falls on the just and the unjust".  Deserve has got nothing to do with it.  We must play the hand we are dealt, respecting always the inter-connections, the common good, the Triangle, and all that, love and fortune, the familiar story filtered through a different more perfect and certainly calmer interpretive model.

But Lord how I want that girl to feed my chickens.  And I can't help that, being single at this juncture: there is a certain chocolate and oats and honey to be had at the breakfast, and certain obligatory presentations and all that.  Meanwhile, I'm smiling, thinking how much real art I've seen, and even learned to read Jackson Pollock works, just a few days ago.

Buzzards of the Wastelands.

Tuskan Raiders were ruthless, brutish things, that usually hid their ugly faces, even when among only a group of themselves.  They were predators, scavengers of the arid wastes, living on their gets, for good or ill, fighting, scrapping, stealing and killing: marauding in order to survive.

Anakin's mother lived on a moisture farm with a man that had bought her as a slave, but then freed her and married her(in that sequence?). 

Along come the Raiders and taker her away, raping and pillaging the old lady but good, plundering for all they would and damn near destroying the farm.

But from the stars, Anakin would come, and Anakin was not without unction, as an up and coming Jedi warrior, track her to a Raider camp, where he would draw his lightsaber and destroy the Raiders.  As he tearfully told his fiancee later, he killed them all, "even the women and children."

Le Dense Macabre. Viva la Tabula Rasa. On the inert-skremf of people who call themselves "strong".

We say so often, "I was simply there while the thing happened".  We extrapolate that to imply some kind of inner-strength, some kind of proof of fortitude in our own person, that we did not just keel over dead when the whole thing went tits up, our dreams finished, our carefully-laid plans ruined.  Why, we must be just like the smooth stone in the stream, sort of blunt, obtuse.

Dense.

I am skrong, a proper substitute for a whole fleet of boys that are trying to tear down some old cretin's house over a long weekend.  Why, piss-out electrons, putting char marks in the porcelain of yon vitreous bowl.

"I was simply there while the thing happened."

I must be strong to have survived, you know, that hell of a thing; I must be like Thor or something.  And while some say, "life is persistent" others chime in that "life is a nuisance".  It can be a thing to contend with, I say, having made various small steps forward into the fray.

Fuss and Fricassee.  I can change the channel, you know, look away from unpleasantness-how many of the inner-city dead can never broach my cocoon.  But we are citizens of the world, who must balance time for a thing with time for study.  And my favorite movie star had disappeared, but not before leaving behind a slew of nude photos, grist for the mill, something to whet the threshing fangles.  And all we have to an extent, as time goes on, is the continuous kneecap rasp of past cock-ups, and pictures from other people's picnics.  All that sort of stuff that makes you feel warm and fuzzy, like your insides just died of gangrene.

But the pictures on the wall were there, too, the ants in the carpet, the adrenaline-gorged television even sat through it,too, and all this other stuff, like Mister Couch and Mister Armchair.  Why you would have to say, the whole room is totally "awesome" for having just sat there, like if you had crapped in the floor before it happened, and let that sit during, then after, your poo is also a superhero.

Why, I'm strong?  You want a spritz of Glade, or a peppermint?  What would you watch Shannon Bream's show for, before you go to sleep, so you can get something there that you can let bonk around in your head to get you through the night?  Would you sit there with a bottle of Vodka watching TBN hoping for a word from above?

And you said you were strong.  Pull a semi using the strength of your hair or teeth?  Not that strong?

Put all of Rockingham on your back, like you were some kind of Greek god of old, like you were just going to bear the whole thing with some kind of gritty determination, like "I can sit through practically anything, Megyn".  Foot massage?  Put all of Rockingham on my back, while hearing the old lines, "I knew him, Horatio.  A man of infinite jest, most excellent fancy."

movie idea: and end to the whole bless

One of the few horror movies to take place on Thanksgiving,

a single dad named Myles Laudermilk drives to a secluded Dollar General to buy cranberry sauce.

I did not forget it's a horror movie.

Zombies.  Horse thieves.  Aliens.

Michael Moore is there with a film crew, but is harassed by a local National Guard attachment that had been ordered by the state officials.  He starts yelling at the Colonel and the others, even Lilo's Saudi royal love interest, and old Moore is just crowing, wailing, finally reaching a crescendo, working himself into a cathartic moment, holding them off by threatening to stab himself with an ink pen.

Three deputies are there, buzzed-on some Arbor Mist and Manneshevellicz, and one throws cheeseburgers, at a rapid clip, into the air at strafing enemy fighter jets, taking them all down, miraculously.

"At first blush". does time travel really offer a second chance to get it right the first time?

Fermi allowed for quantifiable uncertainties, and gave a cold eye of calculation to deductive miscalculations, or mistakes in perception.

Elseways, in a litany of various failings, we begin to find a kind of bruised dignity, as of the dignity of mistakes and half-scrapes, the end of which we are just happy to still be alive. 

Meanwhile the past is buried, but it is not so dead as we wish to believe.

Where are the shopping carts, you might ask, and can I time travel to back when they were all in the corral so I can better keep track of them, in lieu of a better solution?

In all this uncertainty, there is your own ruling principle, not your friends' advice, and not your horoscope.  But your own judgement, as if to say, despite it all, you know yourself better than they do, and you are far better informed to make a decision in your own best interest.

It would seem there is a kind of uncertainty in Free Will that some folks can't or won't accept because that uncertainty manifests as anxiety, but do they not see that the anxiety is born from a false narrative coming from without, and not the realization of some glorious perfect dream?

Just like the old warnings that they gave around, talking about turning off electronic devices like cellular phones and pagers, in certain places, because of a fear of electronic disruption of sensitive instruments, just like a pilot, hands on the yoke, switching off the automated system to land the plane using only his own skills, something he knows how to do.  Just like we are born with certain instincts, instincts created thousands of years ago, so we can go so far without training of any kind, because the modus is innate, inborn, with us all the while, from the beginning.

As is said from another, to fear having what you want, but to be living in the interim in the shadow of failure, and barely getting by at that, stymied, grown accustomed to having failed in the realization of the glorious dream.  To wrap one in a comfortable shell and claim to enjoy the failure, having come to embrace it as reality, where "fun is fun, and done is done".  To have learned to smile on the dismal, and be urged on by one's support system, urged on deeper into the aftermath.

As Renner was demonstrating, he keeps visiting Laodicea, and he observes each visit how more and more of the ruins are excavated, more and more pedestals, statuary, columns, set aright.  But that's not to say, "it could have been better" but to say, "I want to understand how it really was".  And that much we are saying more and more everyday.

But when to improve, and not just strengthen our forearms as we cling desperately to the cliff-face?

Remember this final thought, a bit of pun, as it were:  A friend in need, is a friend that will let you watch her pee.  And in the dismal aftermath, 10 years, 20 years on, we take our amusements in a dismal fashion to match the dismal life with its dismal rime of dust, its undercurrent of mold and dry rot.

How green was my rebellion.

So I was/am trying to do a "vagina-centric" kind of dialogue style, in the face of other styles.  Generally feeling the work has been ignored, and that through a fresh set of eyes, a different interpretive model has emerged.

And so I do combat with that interpretive model, described as "different" is actually the same old stuff, the "set A" ontology that I sought to get away from.

I was thinking also how "How Green Was My Valley" is kind of lost in time, yet it beat out "Best Movie Ever in Citizen Kane" at the Academy Awards in its year.  In truth, Valley should have just got the directing Oscar, but there is always some social engineering at play with the Oscars, I wot.

You wanna compare John Ford and Orson Wells?  First of all, Valley is set in "Wales", so there's your first point of contact, that Valley in a sense, was even then, though an enjoyable film, in the shadow, in the footprint of the more important film.  There are other vagueries involved, such as Wells "directing by committee" that so much of his stuff was either Mankiewicz or the production staff, and should not be considered emblematic of any supposed "Wells ingenuity".

Wells would soon after go the sentimental route with "The Magnificent Ambersons", but to a more dismal amount of fanfare, as if Hollywood were tiring of his very presence on the marquee.  One would wonder if Wells was trying to give them the sentimental things they craved in Hollywood with Ambersons, or whether it was just a novelty that stuck with him, or a Joseph Cotten vehicle.