yon tender earth, a reprinted duo of musing on Israel and Palenstine.

REPRINTED:

Indeed, the classic game of one-ups-man-ship, revenge for revenge, evil for evil, to precipitate a larger humanitarian crisis, and hopefully, whimsically suggest that the West get involved in this hapless harm of civilians in the name of whatever.I hesitate that Abraham wouldn't approve.  "We support.." this or that, unconditionally, lives lost on either side.  I could discard them both, I think, various sides, and make no moral imperative that knits me into either side, neither the contrarian France, or the moral elites of the further West. I'd support Israel, mayhap, if they did something sensible, but I'm not parsing to wait on that eventuality. I mean, of course, the bad guys know what automatic responses will come from the morally superior West, such as funding the Bread Basket response and all, they knew that, counted on that, and what was Biden, but lead, automatically it would seem, into the stock counter responses. And the others, suggesting rage for rage, moral indignation, evil for evil, and so forth. And Wladimir is depending on the funding for his own little show.  Not that he wants the territory, but that he wants to contest it, and they want to spend their money there. And we are lead by these inane narratives, into endless dissipations.

REPRINTED, (part two, same day back then...)

In securing generations of deadly hostility to come, Netanyahu has been vastly successful, moral imperative after moral imperative, and trails upon trails of dead civilians; oh how I wish their murderous whims did not snatch away American money, their little baby-killing football game, with their asses clenched in team spirit for the homeside, and no sense of recognizing at all the humanity of the other side, but to scream into the sky that they have been wronged and would have blood. Not a dollar to those bastards.  Either side, both wrong, both with blood on their hands, and we are what, to pick a friend amongst the angry savages?  The region has been constantly checkmating one another time on end, with only counter strikes in between, and no roadmap to peace, but maybe George W Bush making a sensible effort. So Mahmoud Abbas wasn't the best "peace-partner"; get another. Then to say Christ was a "high priest in the order of Melchizadec", when the Hebrews were no sooner to raid the land and build their own temple, pretending to still even to Melchesidec, when they would have made him kneel to their swords."Their 9/11", their cause for endless war, as if they needed a reason, of course. And its not a Western problem, even the human rights abuses in Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan, as they transition from oil barrens, to sports network executives, the entire country's economies dependent upon Western capital. This is the haphazard "system" that men like Joe Biden, John Kerry and John Bolton have participated in for decades, paying to pave over the world, other parts of the world, mostly, with their "aid packages" and "automatic sanctions". The Middle East, that bag of angry cats, is not the problem of the Western World, as we turn around so many illiterates, so many Taylor Swift fans, so much Amazon stock, and the human condition begins to curdle; I point out if the sanctions are "automatic" then we don't need a John Bolton for a soundbyte, that if we want to starve someone to death, we don't need a spokesman for it, that if we want to facilitate suffering, we can hold our heads high and know we are the best at it, the best there is at what we do.

 

Chris, Doug, and pretenders to the presidency, those dismal hues of better things.... a musing from Walmart 1010

 

d

"When Chris was here...."  and I tuned-out, not wanting to hear this rest, Doug and Bartok Obumble'.

Bartok wanted to borrow a cigarette, his usual thing in Sharod, wandering the streets without pocket money, on the eternal bum, scaring up money.

And then there, was he trying to relate to me?  Talking about buggies in the parking lot?  Did he see my uniform?  Did he care?

I had devoted too many brain cells, and went-off musing about Doug thinking my car was a Buick, though much too small to be a Buick of that era, he thought that, and he was motorbike was Japanese, his eyesight not so good, his hair as white as his worldview, a kind of talk-radio Santa Claus, and I was the one, silently kicking myself for my ingenuity, talking about Limbaugh and Obama.

The very gayest mullet and the most sexually alluring 55 year old black woman in the world, tumbling over one another like a pair of socks in the wash.

They loved Chris, and at the time, it was a contention for me, like that rebuked me somehow, that liking Chris was a rebuke on me, a condemnation.

Originally, I was in an awful frame of mind, but later, I of course conceded that Chris had his fair points, and we had always been friendly because he was amiable sort.

To his credit, he was like that with pretty much everybody.

Just like a neighborhood mutt. 

He was of course, the caucasian exigence of Extra Crispy, too.

I had broke the lanyard on my badge, so it was in my shirt pocket, but the shirt had two patches on it saying my department name.  Not a buggie guy at all.  I handled the big iron.

I even had a brand new iron in the trunk of my car, but the most rip-shit thing of all was being able to get McCafe in the selfsame building, just a few footsteps away form it at all times, and me not quite the bloodless fiend for it then that I would become later.

"Strategic action point" while he droned-on: to finish my shift with an acceptable load of nicotine in my bloodstream.

Western Mass Delusion Part 1: Swiftboat Captians united against Caroline Hicks.

 

d

In fact, of the obsolescence of the spirit, preservatives and so forth, the fountain of physical youth and the drying of the mud of the spirit, and profound aridity of the soul.

If I had, as it were, farm acreage, I would not sell it to China, but such is the easy way of capital and amalgamation, to send pork revenues to an oppressor, in order to drive the newest smartest trucks and so forth, the latest of the phones, the proverbial mass psychosis.

I would not break the contract with my label, re-record the music and get paid twice for the same songs, but such is me, and I don't ruminate in the embittered flotsam of a disheveled bathroom, but I hasten forward without, and I can shut out the noise quite well.

I'd rather be a hammer than a nail, and as such, the nail writes dirges about bending haphazardly in the surface of posterity, and I take not what I did not brook of my own accord, but what they say, men about "selling" things, and so forth.

I brook not.

Traylor Howard.

I said f*ck that noise, but there very f*cking was a kind of noise, and the noise that pervaded, was a kind of haze of uncertainty, as if rushing to a trough, a kind of perhaps mindless careening forward, lost in one's own narrative, ready to fall flat, feeling a constant self-contained depression and malaise of perhaps, a singular pee party that they sat in afterwards, and they wanted to talk about it, because it was important to them.

And the grease had went sour.

Ray Traylor.

How one could, loathe the people, while also loving the people, the immortal communion of life itself, under a common sun, on a common firmament.

Hernon Traylor, nee Tittaglia, a simple copper mining village in Sicily, among ancient ruins, in kind of a moon-like crag of earthen debris and olive vines, it was said to be a meteorite of old, the source of the mineral wealth and the odd whispers, eldritch tales of things that didn't look like people, some other kind of intelligence, the betters that pretended the gates, or was it us pretending the gates?

 

Burnham Woods, an expostition.

Burnham Woods, the security guard hastened toward a light in the wilderness, in the dead of night, the rigorous obsolescence of the spirit.....

a light in the wilderness...

we aRE frOm thE fuTure

plaNeT gLoBetroTTeR

it was subliminal ASCII code or something, the mind/machine connection and all that, men paired to their own devices, indeed, left, in the future, to their own devices.  

Such devilment was inevitable, perhaps, that men behave like men, no matter the circumstances, and any other floorshow was just something to amuse the visitors at set times of the afternoon and evening.

In its own dull and impersonal way, "there was interaction", and these were not civilians, of course, but entitled hired men.  Hands.

The Gazette's "open source" reporter, digging like a fiend trying to get crispies from the bottom of a chicken bucket.

 

dd

And here, the Gazette unearths some innuendo that Dr Taushe funded proof of function research, but not to be deterred, we march boldly, impertinently, into that "undiscovered country", Gene Roddenberry's vision of the future.

It's kind of a Russian Roulette of genetics, I reckon, a prestidigitation of various points of interests, blood and oxygen centers, and kind of representing a line of demarcation between various competing interests between the First World, and the Axis of Evil.

Mind, all of this is made-up, of course, but a shadow and type of the real story, of course, nothing to be proven or disproven, but a kind of bald impertinence in itself.

Time of the Season(Arise, Chicken! Arise!)

The key to the season is always ball control, that's why I wasn't too put off by them letting Cornbread do a bunch of slow carries.

Cornbread himself, as we remember, was a "worst-to-first" who went from Learning Disabled to College Prep in just one set of number 2 pencil bubbles.  The citizenship test though, was a different story, and I was in the video store that day, while they made him stay over, to take the test a fourth time.

Four times.  Funny how I could make an A, and my closest friend in the class would fail.  Like they were punishing one of us, or something, like the did to UNK.

That lady hated UNK, and suggested that I, a young man, was having my period when I asked to call out sick.  But I was on the President's List that year, and she hated UNK just enough to hold him back a year, and that set-up a surprise reunion circa 93 or 94 when UNK was roaming around friendless, and then that evil smile broke across his face when he saw his old compadre with the upper class men at that school.

Ball control, remember that.

 

Self-identifying, and a sample "hair product budget". Or decidedly not.

I remember one with incriminating claw marks up and down her back, but how about incriminating hairs?  And Hanville Shaulbert can make a slip of the tongue and say the most true he ever said, before folding himself back into the agreed-upon narrative.

I self-identify as a millionaire.

They say, "but you have nowhere near a million dollars."

"FOCK DAT!" I say, and do that Jedi hand wave, the mind trick.

I didn't know if you computed worth by a few years income, plus the dollar value of tangible assets, or like 20 years of profits or something: in fact, I knew a guy that discarded the actual property value and computed by ten year's of net income.

Or if you figure in television contracts and all.

"Hair product budget".

You know what they do?  The hook-bill somebody in the appropriate design, like barbed wired around the leg or something, then heat that.

Like third-degree heat.

That's what they do; that's how they do.

And what do I do?  Well, I might buy a Stoic medallion to prove my merits, or something, "self-identifying" as a Philosopher, a lifelong learner, one of "untested merit".

Movie Idea: Yon Fraught Trail.

Stonehard Calhoun.

Cowpoke.

Pistolero.

Deputized US Marshall.

Rumored to be a US Senator.

He laid up, in a chasm out in the wastes, an optical illusion that protected him and his horse, so as his horse could forage on native grasses, and he could drink his bottle till he fell asleep, Deputy Calhoun.

"Iffen you don't give me the deed to your ranch, I'm gonna tie ya to the railroad tracks."

But he was already doing his thing, sniffing around, how a lawman works like the devil sometimes, exploiting weaknesses.  He gathered the hoosecow bunch, made them stand next to their bunks, and he called two out.

Local constabulary was mystified.

But he had already went to work: that devil mojo of the elected pistolero, the card sharp, the breaker of hearts, the cutty sark, the sweet never sour with the hard smile on sun-barked cheeks(both sets).

He depended on them working against one another, the one's left with their thumbs in their butts, standing beside the bunks, to begin to conspire and form an impression of what they thought.

Now they commenced to a'thinkin'.

That them two boys were rolling on everybody, giving the jig up right proper, with the heat put on them.

What they thought, chess-wise, a "move", their perception of one, whether their was a move or not, gave them a worry: a need for a counter move.

"Where a'be the widder!?! You show me yuh money and tell."

He moved them, but not the two, but instead the other fools that thought the two were talking to the Marshall.  

And in turn, they moved on one another, their criminal Machiavellian thoughts to do first and worst, their thoughts to get over, and they stepped on two pidgeons that sat in the lobby with a Coca-Cola, while the other desperadoes thought they were confessing, with Calhoun and Jim Duty not even talking to the two, just letting them set there and have a soda, and suitably, the jig was sooner up, not off of paperwork, but Calhoun manipulating them boys, setting them to thinking, "a ruse", and Governor Pataki and the Supreme Court had ruled in favor of false ruses played on the suspect.

And in that, they bit down hard.

Aren't you glad?

Just sittin' here, twiddling my thumbs, doing some calisthenics in a little bikini.

"Horrorshow" they said, "ripsh*t", they chirped.

Aren't you glad you're not those people?  That you are who you are, at your perfect liberty to read a blog, or something else, almost anything else at all that comes to mind, with liberty being, not something allowed by your betters, but liberty purely being their limitations on how much or how little they could stand your way.

And in the end, you were always more in control of your own actions than you thought, and one day when you realize it, it's really a depressing thought, that perhaps you gave too much impetus to others, and some of those absolute strangers, and you were held too much by what you thought that they thought in re: you.

Jim Duty and Eric Carlysle, drinking "Bright'n'Early" and having Dunkin and all, taking in their own beginnings, bright beginnings, some thousands that comprise a lifetime, and them tearing one back in their own desultory way.