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."

Prayers offered up in earnest for the starving lesbians..... not really a joke, at all, in the grand scheme of things.

Nov 30, 2023 6:00 AM
Thursday

Outgoing congressman Dan Kildee said something I agree with: “I remember when Jim Jordan represented the furthest fringe, and now he’s mainstream.”  I’m a Republican, mostly, of the Liz Cheney and Mitt Romney stripe, I remember voting for Romney and he still to this day carries some of my loyalty–the mega-successful Mormon business man.

I still consider Jim Jordan and his stripe fervently on the fringe.

Praying for Hope, a bisexual with a history of drug-abuse, a now adult mix-race child, and she, a woman at times, joy finds her at random times, in whatever circumstances.  At last report, she had been banished from the bottom of the barrel, the druggie trailer park in Patrick.  If I had the funds and a spare bed, I would.  She wants a shack up, but she doesn’t know thats not what she needs.  That’s the practical side.  

She needs income.

She needs shelter.

She needs quality friendship.

What does she get, instead?  Emotional vampires using her as a cum-rag.  I feel for these people sometimes.  I really do; circumstance makes it so hard for them to even catch a breath of fresh air, when all they need is a quiet moment, and they can’t get their heartbeat to slow, can’t find just plain old quality rest and realistic, honest companionship.  In a world of casual acquaintances, she needs several real Platonic friends, and a period of peace, fed well, clothed and housed, in which she can address the next phase of her life, without the urgency of poverty and lack and loneliness.  A support system.

I went a little deeper on ministry past few days, and it feels good; I’m using some of the television pastors as a resource, to keep me focused, even the humanist psychologist for the more Practical Application side.

I come across, “be ye transformed”, in Romans 12, that the mindset can dictate so much of the body, the health, even warp our reality in to something.  And as we do that, actively thinking our circumstances, we come what is good and proper, through that generation, in the spirit of love, mercy and longsuffering.

I can prayerfully, in part, control my circumstances by my mindset; and with the joy and peace of Christ in my heart?  What weapon formed against me could ever prosper?  If God be with me, who could be against me?

Process.

Sanctification and so forth, the continued renewing of the mind, just as God, aforementioned continually spawning Christ, we are also continually regeneration in our minds, even as the braincells die, we remain vital and innervated because of our spirit and hope.

“I will be your God, and you will be my people.”  I cringe that Israel seems to be floundering at the PR aspect of war.  I believe in the end of terrorism, and the right to exist, and even more, a viable, future possibility of two PEACEFUL states.  

Let us be rightly minded for the work ahead.

 

I envied his right reason. My penis was bigger than his, but he balanced his life much better.

He would never find himself sucked-out, leeched, ripped like a roaring fart, or otherwise deposited into the vacuum-space of unoccupied spacetime.

He had called his own lifetime an "indeterminate hour" and observed the silence of his betrothed as foreboding, then noted that her words were also as much foreboding.

So he had that to lean back on, in his convalescence.

What an expression of free will, like watching children pull the wings from butterflies, those and other such joys or terrors, alternatingly, that elapse across the firmament at any given time, a thing some of us beleaguered refer to as life!

He tried to make his right reason, feigning being casual about, a study of the successes of others, and he without the same chain of incidents as those, but of a study, applying his carpenter's square and French curve to the study of the method of one or two that rose above: the question was whether to study a billionaire, or study who the person was that became the billionaire.

I could feign a kind of coolness on the matter, like my indifference was kind of a superiority to even participating, they way high-schoolers sometimes do, being above and over many sundry very ordinary human tasks and observations.

Were my goals ever money-bound, I could only measure in monetary terms, but here I've reaped a kind of spiritual benefit of the whole thing that seems to supercede money and make that but incidental; on the reading of many books, many does not insinuate itself often, but how then does the collecting of much gold and silver broach-in on the reading of books?

And yet further, moments of cultural dissipation, depravity, the growing of random events, dissolutions of marriages and social contracts, wantonness, and all that, and the observation of one wishing to be tittilated by the behavior, or at least surprised by the new and different, that they are all "asses".  I had observed a perfectly lovely, sane woman, a wife disrespected by her husband, and my response to the thing was that everyone is probably such an ass, each and every one, but the question is to whether they will ever find, calling it love, that other person in the universe that will abide by the first's own peculiarities, or who can "put up with her".

For you see, bra size and skin tone notwithstanding, our own self-expressions can be found caustic to some; our task is to settle alongside one that we can at least tolerate, and be tolerated by, in turn.

And if her silence is a fearful turn, and her speech as much a fearful turn, what if she got caught in some brainstroked-state in between, kind of mewling, and then his own person, him of the "indeterminate hour", vaunted about the precipice between points of eternity.

He can hire an interpreter to communicate with his own wife for him.

In this I envied his right reason: that he subdivided well between work and play.  People talk about wanting to balance their lives out, but there, a Cincinnatus himself, a sage kind of bugaboo knowing when to do the core business, and conversely then, when to throw away long stretches of hours to nothing ends.

What's good for the goose.....

I was musing and remembering, Christ constantly manifested by God, as Athanasius said.  Through time, created, and created.  Constantly.  

And how so?

If not in flesh, then in us and others as subjugates, nature around us, some kind and charitable acts, providential things.  The beauty of a cold morning sunrise, the sun, big and orange, rising, bringing a twinge of welcomed warmth; I’d sun my face crossing the river some, and would take pains to bear my cheeks full-on in the sunlight.  I chose that route for that very purpose; my hands on top of the steering wheel, trying to leech the warmth from the sunlight, though the chill was deep inside already.

It looked like a cistern, some few gallons in size, filled with tofu, but that started to bleed into an amber liquification, like turning healthy food tofu into beer or something.  It was mass-market grease heating, warming more and more, and I could watch a spiral of warmth geometrically spread through the mass until all was the beautiful, unblemished grease, in a very clean, newly-scrubbed frying vat.

On the dismal tedium bearings, uneven shades of fill, idle time I mean, earning some nine dollars on some seemingly unimportant things, and taking a kind of calculus on the small sum, on how to make just the small sum have a positive impact on the world, and after that, whatever goodwill is leftover, to my people and my own person.

The American Thanksgiving, when the pioneers were saved by the Natives, religioius emigrants those settlers, to share a land, and along the way, such death and robbery, but the original nugget of the thing was an act of good will between the natives and the early pioneers, people that, for the sum of one meal, during that time must have shared some shred of common understanding, regardless of where they were from, or what things they worshipped.

And if Christ is “constantly” being spawned by God, then the world is constantly being saved, over and over again, from one soul to another, across a gulf of eternities and star systems, the very spirit of the faith among people being almost a thing unto itself, like the Apostles manifesting with the Spirit on the Day of Pentecost.
 

What ever happened to Benny Santini?

It was 1990.  One of the classmates had flashed a 1987 Donruss Jose Canseco.  I thundered, an athletic but very obese youngster, frequently sweating at the edges of my curly mane.  The stratagem was simple: to offer the princely sum of one US quarter to the lad with the card, and I hustled along hoping to catch him after school.  No PED controversy at the time in the league, Canseco being that rare blend of speed and power.  A base stealer and a home run hitter, centerfield for the Oakland Athletics.  Through the eras I pick-out so many of those guys, except for Barry Bonds, during my baseball hiatus, but Mike Trout, Ricky Henderson, my man Acuna Jr.

The lad with the hot card.  He was a car rider, and I a bus rider, and the car riders had a further walk, and sure enough, athletic butterbuns trying to catch him, he was out of sight at the main door.

But I had a quarter, and suddenly that quarter seemed impotent in my pocket.

There was an ancient school building adjacent on the property, with the school “canteen” where we could purchase afterschool snacks from vending machines, one or two at the time, languishing in a line, hoping the bus didn’t leave us in the meantime.

A Dr Pepper that was gone dry before I crossed the yard–now a kind of soccer field on the property, sold to private interests, and I was, like a madman or a gladiator, making my way through the opening in the fence(“wait til they get a load of me”) for the bus, where it was a different program, assigned seating and no talking(something about talking distracted the bus driver, who was during the school hours, a library assistant).
 

Mastication, rejuvenation: pt 2.

Water and decaffeinated coffee for a while, this sojourner, journeyman.  Then a square of peanut butter fudge for breakfast.

Like Jeremiah, I had the remnant at lunch: cold grits, a yellow urine trail of butter atop it.

Spooned.

Then three cups of Pepsi.  8 oz cups of Pepsi.

Then two chicken legs.

That was, a day, in the shadow of Nebuchednezzar, in the shadow of more luxurious fare, to eat somewhat simple, or at least minimal, with the grenade of the fudge tossed in, some better than 200 calories in a mouthful.

"In ten days, compare me and Shadrach and Abednego to your concubine boys and then see who has fared better, either us with our millet, or your concubines."

Mastication, rejuvenation, and other conditions of the life abundant and flowing.

Up 630 am, podcasts, and Pepsi, the remainder of yesterday’s 2 ltr.

We were talking about eternity, and not this month’s Netflix payment, something that stretches further than a few dollars this month, or a fleeting worry of something that comes and goes.  Something that transcends, as it were, reaches beyond and then onwards towards infinity.

Of the infinite, the Aluminum 1974 penny, and a kind of oddity of modernity, like lottery tickets, luck and fortune, turning waste materials, or worthless materials, into a fortune.  The oddity of taking circulated pocket change and scouring it for valuable coins.

So we’ve coursed from infinity to the very finite, one cents in the interim, and are none the better, though we’re now looking towards the horizon, toward something afar off, as we are “surrounded by a cloud of witnesses”, then taken up the very limited little sum of one cent.

How are we any better off?  How is the offing of such random thoughts made us the better, when we’re bound to strip away all the nuisance, the nuance, and the very John Kerry of it, to find underneath something like pure joy–who would have even suspected, had I not just dropped the message here?

After it all, calling it supplies, rejuvenated, and randomly bouncing around like popcorn kernels in the kettle, we are of course, a curiosity, something more intern that eternal, itinerant, journeyman scholars of the world around us.

Why of the other, 1974, in a race to let inflation run out of control, the government had those aluminum pennies punched up and punched in, letting the cost of money, the value of money, and the prestige of money, dwindle towards zero, the very semiotic of zero, that what was nothing to them, would become nothing to us, more of that Fog of Similitude.  Panty liners, the little ones, or the bigger 1200 horsepower and up sizes, used as shop towels, something lacy around the tailfins and the refill slot, and meanwhile, so many chromed dual exhausts on the Gram and so forth, and society up-ended, cats napping with dogs, and the lion walking over to the lamb, and all.

Journal and Idle Musing: Tao riddle of the Sharpened Blade.

Went to sleep, fell asleep, very early after warming under the blanket from being chilly all day.  Popped-up about 10 pm and took my meds, spot of water, peed, and back to bed, foggy-headed, probably from the day’s extra caffeine, the McCafe I hadn’t had in five days.

There was also a hue.

It’s all process, you know?  Like when I was on the 8 bit playing 3D World Runner and it jiggered.  The technique is to remove the cartridge, blow it off, and put it back in.

It’s all like the Tao’s blade that is soon dulled: sharpened well, but soon dulled?  And Tai Chi Leia says the blade is dulled in murder, but all process does the same damage to the blade, and its all maintenance, but conversely, as I’ve found, the finer the edge, the more immediate the dulling comes, that the finer edge is weaker, or something.

Such that its all, in face, process, and in the meantime, the very act of presence has an ambiguity, reality itself a kind of fog of similitude, if that makes sense.

And is asked, does God want all the evil people to prosper over the good?  Such, “blessed is the poor in spirit”, but unspecified as to substance in hand, as if poor in hand, but downhearted, that the sad will be comforted.  And I was reading in Hebrews about people that long for the country, that Undiscovered Country of Shakespeare and Gene Roddenberry canon, and prophesied, the New Jerusalem, and all, and prophecy put in the meat grinder, some kind of nightmare scrawl of Freemason codes, and I remind you, there was a hue.

The Nationalists long for the country in the present and here, while the true ones know the far country is further off in the spiritual sense, sojourners, journeyman, who bet borrow on a time and place and bide their time in the fruit of the spirit, in longing and hope for that country, not bowling over people in the natural, or toting around wheelbarrows full of complaints.

How dismal it is to complain and then blithely chirp, “let not your heart be troubled.”  All some would have of us is trouble.  Ticks suckling their babies on secondhand take, blood of a dying beast; indeed, any agression feeds the Iranian purpose, just as so much feeds the Russen purpose, the raison Ruska.

And I heard Israel has a new hospital this week.  That’s good news, but I hope they’re up to the task.  The Askani took little Nathan Christopher in to the future, and he had what would become Legacy Virus, annihilating mutantkind, running rampant, and from the future, the germ, some three counterparts, three Nathans.  It’s serial writing of course, to have some fodder for the offing, just like that soap opera spending several days pissing about the patriarch’s lost stapler.
That said, pissing about the stapler, it was a moment of glory when they found it, the little cornhole girl looking through boxes, and nobody thought, at first or last, that the stapler from his desk would be in boxes of stuff taken from his office.

It’s a matter of paygrade mindsets, I suppose, that their blush is a more sophisticated kind of thing, and perhaps too sophisticated for truth and provenance at that, that hue, but there was a hue just the same, some Saladin Scarlett that at once provokes from beyond the ether, across space and time, that eternal cause and once and forever cemented Original Sin.
 

Journal: A New Moon's Jaunt.

A new week elapses, under the nothingness of the New Moon: of nothingness, a nothingness foray into the wild, this morning, a hike of some fifteen minutes, two road signs, turnabout at the Walnut tree.  

“Mindfulness”.  It’s kind of a hot-on, open-switch of brain activity, when the mind is otherwise unused, not analyzing Antonin Dvorak Top 40 tracks, or anything.  I had that marked emptiness, too stupid to come anywhere near the further signpost of self-awareness, and if I could bottle that, tens of hundreds would line up for that thing which others can only speculate about: Tao-like, such that the mindfulness one can describe in detail is false; it can only be hinted.

There was some thick-stemmed undergrowth with a cotton-like, feathery top, of which I presume prior to last spring, the effluvium of this droned across my yard, and they were speculating that there was a Cottonwood tree somewhere up the hill, but neigh.

Instead it was weeds that pretend to be trees, and me in the interim, enjoying my footfalls in the New Balance Cross Trainers, and I thought then some deer taking-off in the brush, but no.  There was an oak thicket further up the way, and I thought it might be that, but no a big old Turkey Oak, it’s leaves starting-up in a whisper.

And tendrils of sunshine across the road, and I swore, in ten minutes, the sun rose and made a wide patch of sunshine on the pavement, despite the treetops in between.  And one damn horse watched me, indifferent to the whole mess anyway, as if to say, “there he goes again.”

“There he goes again.”  I intend to Field Guide that undergrowth.  Really get at the quiddity of it, like memorializing a stupid simple little moment, me glancing over at it, hoping maybe, in peripheral vision, that it was some woman of age interloping through the underbrush near the roadside, coming past weather-stunned grape vines, plenty of broomstraw, and at last, the volunteer Magnolias on the State acreage.

I was not in sight of the homeplace, but such in the mind of that I wasn’t lost if I didn’t think about it all, as per so many pinball-people that bounce, collide and clank against one another, with the restraining orders and used Hondas between them.  But then when is never very far from home but in the heart, where the homeplace claims the mind of the earnest that genuinely cares for the place.  Don’t let them lie to you, that if you disconnect you enter into a kind of rest, when in fact, a cultivated life gives rest at home, first, and best–never otherwise, no matter how many miles from the shore or how pretty the white beach sand.
 

Poland Springs and the Smogglewoffs, something about eternity.

Acacia wood.

So, not just gay, but a "berzerker", kind of a gay that gives other gays a bad rep with the Methodists, yer know?  Not just a correspondent, but a by-God Elton John Ken Anderson of a somebody.  Not just gay, but sopped, and dripping in it.

But not all.

And we had an ontological query earlier, our understanding, not of being, but the world, not of Being In The World, Dasein, but the world itself, the realm physic.

Of ourselves, what do we understand?  Eat hot chips, be bi-sexual..... same old same old, and I reckon the tribulations of today will see an end, but our souls twinge eternal, Cheevers.

Actualized Co-efficient of reality, the smogglewoffs of infinity, like little turpentine fingerprints left behind as a remnant of the mysterious doings of a spell of black-out drunkenness.

As James said, "I don't know what life can be...."

"I feel like it has something to do with hauling junk cars to the steel mill."

And that was, for him, a thing.

Acacia wood, as it were, perhaps protected, its own bodyguards, being perhaps, the fretboard of some great stringed instrument, and Poland Springs, yer know, and the not talking about of the talking about, and believe me, plenty to talk about, inches of vellum, as it were, to be left in the dispatch.

We went from Poulard Mauney to Poland Springs, and, not dizzy from the transition, we are perhaps, writing our on things, but not on vellum, but encoding somehow in the various strings of eternity.

To improve our cellphone, one thing, but to improve man?  Indeed, Ecclesiastes 12, we can only enjoy our own fruits, big and with light fur, we can only enjoy this, and give praise to our maker.

We traverse from thing to thing, looking for the right thing, until something falls, Plinko style, through the mechanism, and the tumblers begin to switch and turn, and the whole thing resembles something like life,

and by God, we got ourselves a blog piece, and eternity done its due diligence.

 

Is, Is Not, and starfishing oneself by slicing off a toenail or something: an ontological premise.

They said, in the familiar, "where Erin is?"

I, somewhat contrary and so forth, ever the ass-punching originalist, contort that, "where is Erin NOT?"

Indeed, "Erin IS", and "IS Erin?"  In her panties, with a towel around her head, an Arbor Mist in her maul, and beside her, one of Caitlyn's illegal cigars polluting the room, as Erin reads from the pajamahadeen, Substack, Wordpress, and so forth, calling it, dubiously, research, what to steal and what to feel--a long weekend from from the madding camera and all that, and one wonders, at all, with a vague feeling of solicitude, who she painted her toenails in order to please them, if, in the discourse, she were alone all weekend.

We have here spearfished an ontological query of import to the modern discourse, I think, where and how, IS and IS NOT, Being In The World, and Being in the Signal, her face and AI reproduction-capable likeness and voice.

But of reproducing her, we could write entire volumes, could we not?

 

The fishbowl, the fodder, and that feeling of regularity.

So there I was.  So there she was.  On the Ottoman trimming her toenails, Alexandria, and there a punkt and there would fly one.

"Not so close to the fishbowl, dear."  I said.

I had looked upon such with the scorn that only lovers can muster, the scorn as if the loathing of one's own favorite blanket or stuffed fodder.

Fourteen good, fore-ordained amperes.

Alexandra was showing our girls how to properly shave their legs, being as they were, impertinently pretending, usyruping to be so grown and independent, with only their Mum to guide them on those kinds of matters, and soon they were out of the bathroom, pink-skinned, with their heads wrapped in towels, bath-fresh, and we were lining up to hear coverage about the Chiefs, the Seattle team, and some other, remnant and sauce of endless small wagers made, and Starbucks money tossed indolently, ignorantly, into the void.

Old Pancake was a Son of Ishmael, if you dig the Holy Book, and all, and I could hear him cursing to himself out on the street.  I knew what he was doing; bad wiring system in his RAV4, too small a battery, in the wise of Cold Cranking Amps and so forth, and he would push it down the hill in gear, and amazingly it would charge the battery enough that he could listen to his choice of radio Coastal Chanticleers or Wake Forest football during the day; he had a system of it, buying salvage car batteries and inverters and so forth, to charge his cellphone or have an afternoon's dissipation of brain cells.

Do ya ken, "Son of Ishmael"?  Once and always an arrogant little self-important peckerwood, a "maid's son", and all, though he might brook with, shoulder-wise, with the offspring and germ of Nebuchednezzar, Darius and Cyrus alike, he was pond scum, himself that forsook promises for his own little football game, with horses and stuff, dressed like some kind of European woman, running around on Japanese wheels.  Indeed, the "Son of Ishmael".

Trying to run it up to fourteen good amperes.

Otherwise, what was it?  Tracking wagers, and all, or Facebook, or video porn of heavy machines like excavators and strip-mining heavy equipment.

All Saint's Day 2023. of foreigners of monks, sugar much films, my interests.

Ahh, it was Halloween, with neither particular tricks or treats from me, but perhaps, as I said to the postal clerk, "I thought I would dress as a passionovante today, but I failed again."

Erin and Katie, dressed respectively as a princess and ballerina, went from house to house with big toothy grins, holding-out their bags, "trick or treat, smell my feet!".

The others hunted candy, far from the obsolescence of the spirit, somewhere around Happy Mountain, or the gambling strip mall to the Southwest.

I want candy

bubble gum and taffy

skip to the sweet choc'let

my sweetheart Sandy.

-MC Chris

As it were, in the interim, was a peculiar dismal little transition from end of harvest and the coming of autumn in earnest, towards the feast of All Saint's Day on November 1st, 2023.

Of course, I did some reading in the afternoon cool, an incidental piece of Classic American Literature, something about the novelty of a youngish foreign girl in the eyes of a quintessential American lad, without the guiles and good humor of people of Mark Twain's stripe.

There was a passage about killing a fat five foot rattle snake, swiping at its upraised head with the edge of a garden spade, and the snake himself, realized later, despite the girl's sweet surprise, was a bit fat and lethargic in contrast to his peers: he lived in a mound around a bunch of prairie dog holes, and had gotten somewhat lazy on such an easy food supply.

A Crassus of the snake lineage, perhaps, taken as it were, to bed down at night near the buffet line in hopes of future feedings.

And some 20 or 30 wolves pegging-off members of a wedding party, until at last, even the bride and groom were tossed to the wolves to lighten the load on a sledge, so that two men could men their egress and exodus.

Lest I lapse into a spiritual frost....