Monday, December 21, 2020
Saturday, December 19, 2020
Thursday, December 17, 2020
Wednesday, December 16, 2020
We begin from San Pedro, going up the guts into America. Ranch-spread. Many fine horses. Chickens. Pigs. Women in lacy dresses. Drowsy cowboys, waiting to drink the night away.
Some high muck-a-muck Gringo with waxen handlebar mustache, as they say. A dandy. With a leather chair.
We will have it all. See, this is the way for Americanos. They want something, they just grab out at it.
But the Marshalls. The Texas Rangers.
Your heater stinks. I smell the odor getting into my clothes, my nose, my hair. It's sickening.
Monday, December 14, 2020
Ever had a number break your back? I mean like, to enumerate suffering itself, as of an elderly mother fart, where you can say, of a certainty, it is bad. And then, to yourself, "am I dead?"
"I know this is not heaven, unless the smell has wafted up to us."
But know, I do not pretend to know, but I've sensed something, and from there passed into the innumerable.
There is the innumerable.
The broken back of nomenclature itself, as of the old way, to know, but only communicate in context. "Carry your gun to the barn, son." Or some such. That we crushed the Oxford English Dictionary under a stylish yet entirely comfortable niche shoe. And Bill Barr now has time to contemplate the indefinite qualities of the Tao, let those brush his felicities, dance so lightly across the ivories as not to chime but a single note, and of yet, to have crossed the keyboard entire.
Sunday, December 13, 2020
Biehn has been on both sides of the spectrum.
Good military, Bad military.
Infamous soldier from the future.
Rather decent, humble soldier from the future.
Then, like the clown from It, he seems to disappear for a time before surfacing again.
Saturday, December 12, 2020
This first needs two kinds of white cheese. First, somewhere, usually just on top, a good parmesan. You can grade it fine, like zesting a lemon, or you could go low buck and do the odd bottle of pre-prepped stuff. And yes, I know the pre-prepped has sawdust in it, but you know what?
It won't hurt you.
Second cheese, base layer. Mozzarella or Provolone. or something of that sort.
You can go nuts on your garlic butter. Or not. Going nuts means you break-out a sauce pan and infuse some garlic in butter, then drizzle/douse the bread with it.
Or you could go powdered garlic. I'm not a food snob. I've done it in years past, long before I ever realized I could get better garlic in the stores. But face it, we don't always have the time to be a gourmet in these matters.
So some said smears of butter with garlic powder dusted over.
Then A LITTLE ROSEMARY. And a good bit of basil. Make that butter look green.
PREP: OVEN BETWEEN 350-425 Farenheits.
You need any old kind of bread, but its got to be hotted with the garlic butter actually on it, so that it melts BEFORE you add the cheese.
Hot that butter before you add your cheese, unless you're using the no-prep pre-graded Parmesan, then you can just shower that on with the garlic and other before the warming.
Mind that was just a warming. DO NOT BROWN THE BREAD ON FIRST WARMING.
No put your cheese on it, and watch it sweat for a few minutes in the oven, on the toast, the whole thing becoming harmonious.
Then you have garlic toast/cheese toast or Garlic Cheese, Cheesy Garlic Toast. They served this at roping and tractor pulls in Mckinnon, and the odd Macbeth or Hamlet showing.
Two things I've found that uplift me and nourish me in my short and unfulfilling few years on earth.
First, every few weeks, I look over the book of Ephesians, preferably King James Version of the Holy Bible. As a saved Christian, its sort of moot, in a sense, to look at the promises, because as they say, "I've already made the purchase, so I don't need to look at the sales brochure again", and yet it just amps me up.
Some of my theology fellows take Calvin to task on pre-destination, and indeed, when this is mentioned in Ephesians, its sort of glazed over. For a truth, we acknowledge that God knows all, and man doesn't, so in effect, God chose his believers, and we butt-hurt, poo-poo as to why he didn't choose everyone. But Man must know grace and salvation is available to all, that most everyone has a chance at salvation. Man must know that from his own perspective; meanwhile God knows the beginning and the end at once.
We would even say "why would God care?" Saved or unsaved, we are His children, too. So he cares, and is under no obligation whatsoever. God cares because that is his will.
It's altruism, a vast penumbra of altruism hanging over our reality. Which leads to Buddhist ethics, our next topic.
Second, the Four Noble Truths of Buddha. Now, I'm not a Buddhist, but I agree with a lot of their ethics, without committing to much of it. But the realization of suffering, whether in me, or from without, is powerful.
I have made myself suffer. I work on ending that.
People have abused my emotions. I work on ending that.
But really, do we not see so much that others suffer unjustly? And how can we feel a lack of pathos for that? So much undeserved suffering! Some have had it so much worse, and yet, human resiliency, you'd be surprised what a person could get used to.
I love to dish out some hugs.
Realize suffering, trace its cause, work at that, and finally, free yourself. However, it is not a "once and done" proposition, unless you make some changes in your methods, after. Elseways, you will be assailed by more hurting relatives or money concerns or angry motorists. Something is always there, that is, always there,
unless you have a method. And the Buddhist moderate path, is not so much unlike the analogy of Marcus Aurelius, in which the good Stoic is but a leaf flowing on the current. And in the maze of sneering at popular sentiments, we are last told to maintain our objectivity, our own perspective, but not to fight.
Thursday, December 10, 2020
We each, among us, see the same things, yet have very different perspectives, ie: the fish, the bird, and the worm.
Tuesday, December 8, 2020
Monday, December 7, 2020
Friday, December 4, 2020
One of the great riddles of life is this.
The more we try to hold on to something, keep it at our clasp, the greater the chance we have of losing it or ruining it altogether.
Our best efforts can come to nil, meanwhile, with only minimal tending, our gardens grow; and our thoughts betray us. Love poisons, because it can come about for entirely the wrong reasons, and all the while, while we grasp and hold, our love turns to hate, like silt in the well water.
Of certainty and uncertainty, the seminal principle must be something along the lines of "right intention", or in the old vernacular, a kind of "noble purpose", observing a kind of rightness unbeguiled by either certainty or uncertainty, as the unconscious mind guides us, almost as if we could find love or fortune by just some underdeveloped internal sensibility. Certainty and uncertainty take a holiday and something as undefined as the tao comes into play, some seminal principle of the universe, and our hands move, with us being scarcely aware of it, as if to knit and darn and fiddle at the threads until the work is prepared.
Damming back the water would consume us. Behold an office on the face of the structure, men perturbed to sit and watch, day in and day out, see to the holding back of the water. Almost a jail sentence to be the poor bastard sent over public works hour after hour, but somehow accounted for, with one soul here and one or two souls there, for the good of all, the laying down and wasting of a few.
Conversely, in other matters, one lost and the world cries foul for having seen something of himself in the victim. "My emotions!" might exclaim the sufferer, following a thread of his own, unaware that after a time, the path of truth is lost, and there is only some revenging of an outraged daydream of a ghost, and that having reminded one of one's self.
I once called Danica Patrick, "a Ferrari". And I said, "I could see myself in that." Polishing the surface with the downsoft innards of baby diapers, and in the Rosa Corsa hue, I would see my own anxious face looking back at me, with a kind of blank concern.
My Fiat ticks and buzzes so. I would have it away, perhaps, and upgrade to a better beater.
Blank as trying to define the tao, for certain. That face on the top edge of the fender.
Hunter Thompson. "Oh fuck, that was me." That same blank face, as if I were digging out a splinter or dismembering a squirrel, with a kind of unmotivated attention, the kind of internally blank thing, as of a star collapsing inwards on itself, to then bedraggle and ruin several solar systems.
Working on my Ferrari. Stethoscope on the valve covers, getting a more symphony din than possible in naked sound, screwdriver on the exhaust manifold, feeling for that smoothness, than rhythm.
I could then, like my automobili, appreciate and pet over the Tao, but I cannot own it or fully lay hold of it. I can feel particles with I put my hands in the cloud, but I cannot put my arms around the cloud. So the particles on my hands, kissing, that part-damp, suffices for an experience, and not an ownership or proper having.
Such as to say, they agree that I own the cow, but the milk seems to go on after a time.
Thursday, December 3, 2020
To have conquered oneself, one's own attorney general, is true success. The rest of the world fleets away into the stillness of their own, while one has his own stillness, in a quietened, contented spirit.
Or better yet, to have conquered oneself, the rest of the world is opened, but by then, is it not wanted for additional summer cottages or industrial customer client states. Something to be experienced, but not one jot caring of ownership.
Hurt butt not that the butt has been hurt, especially when it hasn't. Use the force of your will to create the voter fraud that you wanted, that you espoused publically. Will it, Riggs.
That's what Murtaugh said. They had fought with Jet Lee and then Riggs had fallen in the water. From above, on the decking, Murtaugh shouted with all his self, "Will it, Riggs!"
I notice that one of my religious channels has debuted a new show about politics, and I'm grinding my teeth just thinking of that. And deciding never to watch, the "real news", which is inevitably just the "other side" screaming, like someone in Cheraw told me, that when they sound mad, they must be telling the truth.
No, I say. Not a bit.
But John the Apostle said even in his day, there were anti-Christs about. And you know what an anti-Christ probably does? Sit around deciding how to influence public opinion. And maybe that's a kind of passion, or a financial interest, holding advertisers and so forth.
Maybe play some golf. Six thousand dollar flowers in motel rooms that have bed bugs.
I mean. Really. Does anybody care? Somebody is gonna be President, and what I'm not going to do is let it mess with my calm. I will continue now to pick out policy bits to shoot on and not stupidly back any of these broken party menus, their little lists of ideas, the "platform". Social freedom+fiscal dickering paired-off against social restrictions+free markets, and all claiming to be the soul of freedom, all the while, disagreements benaggling, combobulating and perspicating.
Social Traditionalists versus Socialists. David Barton versus Oprah Winfrey. I'd go Libertarian, and wait until they've all put each other safely behind bars.
Another govt thing to butthurt about. Voter ID in South Carolina.
Point one: Voting is a RIGHT. Driving, or having a state DOT issued id card is currently a PRIVELEGE.
Point two: This is one of the biggest counties in the state. Some people have to drive at least 25 miles to the nearest highway department to procure one of those ID cards.
How about automatic voter registration? Registered automatically on receipt of turning 18 years old?
Any hurdle between the eligible citizen and his ballot is VOTER SUPRESSION.
Meanwhile, Riggs is trying to dislocate his shoulder, so he can free himself from the dock debris. Up top, Murtaugh "senses" something from Riggs, like Riggs "willed it" to Murtaugh, and Murtaugh comes down and frees him, his friend.
His white, insane friend. The loose canon. The turd that won't exit the pants leg.
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