La Luz Naranga.

"...doing his magic...

...weaving his spell...

...the children are smiling...

...and a twinkling bell."

-John Osbourne

I was on the coin-op horse at the grocery store, having a ride, working out my frustrations, doing the Urban Cowboy thing, Modern Day Outlaw, ya know.  Cheap drinks and I keep trying to find those delicious "value brand" Ritz crackers knock-offs that are accidentally way more tasty than Ritz crackers.

At long last I got the Peanuts Christmas album with Guaraldi Trio, and it felt like such a sense of personal accomplishment, for like a micro-second, and then, such as in the western world, on to the new thing.

Katelyn msged me that she would Paypal me twenty dollars for a topless photo, and the whole thing came out wrong, the colors off, the light orange(naranga luz) from cigarette smoke on the bulb, and me, changing my social media bio officially to "content creator".

I could imagine such sticky, messy fumblings, in the back seat of an Uber, with Orange Fanta on her breath, such sweet kisses that she denies, her spittle made too thick, and her thirst only provoked by the overly sweet mix.  Pineapple Fanta and she's using Raid Bug and Roach Lavendar scented as spermicide.

I was saying something about, "what is dear is free, but not often cheap".  Along the lines of "revenge was cheap and gratitude expensive".

On the further edge of Christmas 2023.

So I got the new fiber cables……

Tv.  Music.  Web.  Your mother’s Onlyfans.

Watched some of a Christmas Eve marathon, of somewhat more obscure Christmas films on TCM.

Tenth Avenue Angel.  Young Margaret OBrien owns the screen and ties the various stories of a neighborhood together.  Obligatory happy ending, but its welcome, and its worth it to see a smile on her face.  Such as:  preggers mum, and the good-hearted hoodlum.

It Happened on Fifth Avenue.  TCM had kind of pimped this movie during the entire month of December, giving at least a weekly showing.  A happy older character, the wise old kindly and fat man, and the grinchy magnate, the good young man, the became-wise divorcee.  All embraced a kind of moral and emotional intelligence, having that mysterious sixth sense of how and when to hold appearances.  It was worth it, and a good investment of two hours.

I had a stray sense that I had somehow inadvertently, unintentionally, cheesed-off Natalie Portman.  The obvious feelings of guilt and shame accompanied the feeling.

I had an awesome daydream on Christmas morning that I was doing edging in my old yard at Mcdougal Circle.  For posterity, I note that there is a grove of pine trees emerging in that spot these days. No more the four colors of Azaleas, and the Mother’s Day Rose, or the Family Dollar plastic bordering; but nonetheless, I had my tunnel vision, my old professional yardman mindset, and I went to it with gusto.  “Making time.”

The thing was to do the yard at my house, then do a heavy amount of edging/sting-trimming next door at the grandmum’s, where I would level out and generally touch up a lustrous front lawn punctuated by a huge stump of an old evergreen oak.  Then I would do a big expanse of the front ditches.  The rear portion of the acreage next door was a kind of orchard, tailored to the locale, bearing pears, pecans, grapes, and strawberries.

A stray memory in the day, collecting pay, going to a now defunct Winn-Dixie, with said cash haul, and buying a cheap Chef Boyardee pizza kit, but bolstering that with copious amounts of mozzarella.  Indeed, I would buy too much for one pizza, and actually too much for even a second pizza.  The end product would be mostly cheese, of course, and then from the locally-owned Chesterfield, SC grocery store, I bought bacon ends, which tended to be somewhat meaty.  I would brown the pork in the pan before adding it to the uncooked pizza.  The happy pork earls would intermingle with the cooking pizza.  Cheese earls.  Bacon earls.  

Happiness.

I had always talked about going over to Cheddar Cheese, and then using spiced-up mashed potatoes as my sauce……

But then, we live and learn, and inevitably, if we don’t die, we make changes that we thing are providential in the ongoing pursuit of the competing interests of health and happiness.

I caught a lecture on the Deep State from Victor Davis Hanson.  It was balls.  He made and presented his case pretty well, though part of the argument hinged on the “clutching our pearls” reactions of GOP congressman in some hearings.  “The Unelected and Unaccountable Deep State.”  Of his examples, it seemed clear, unhappy military officials, doing some hyjinks with the press, James Comey, John Brennan and some other.   The unthreaded needle was supposed leaks from the Steele Dossier, with the only commonality being, not facts from the document, but simply that document existed, that they claimed they had not heard of it, but the very fact of its existence was leaked to the press.

I’m forced to assume, based on information, or lack of such, that Natalie Portman is, in fact, not mad at me for any reason at all, unless I hear otherwise.

But then there was a podcast, God speaking to the believers through dreams.  Biblical examples.  Documented accounts.

And that much, put in publication on Christmas Eve.  You figure what kind of ministry that is, that it takes the great among the faithful to bring a message to the modern man about one way in which God speaks to his creation.  This, in an era of largely “practical” advice in the form of homiletics.
 

Of the biggest and bestest.

"How to grow strong, true and old."

The first thing it did, the old tree, was to grow in a discarded space within the chicken cage.

This was a brilliant stroke of determination, leaving it ignored to do as it would.

The second thing it did to shrug-away any attention: produce awful fruits.

In producing unusable fruits, the tree was then ignored and left to its own devices, rather than tended with old common sense remedies or ever pruned.

All this went well, and the tree was ignored by the humans, but loved by the caterpillars and the squirrels.

Eventually, the tree grow beyond, somewhat, the chicken cage, and casted a beneficial area of shade next to the garden.

Grandfather, sitting on an old metal folding chair, resting from the morning's tending of the garden, enjoying the previously ignored tree.  And that was the pay-off, that it just came up ignored, untended, unwatched, and was simply allowed by the grace of God to happen.

Such is the way, the one who is useless to the workset, and broken to the healthset, is cared for.  Being in such a way, is useless for purposes that wear the down the machinery of the body, so such grows fat, grows natural, eats well and stays at rest.

What did Newton say?  A body at rest stays at rest, such that metallic caster wheels are now on SSI.

His father said, "be the best, my boy: the brightest."  And he accidentally sawed his fingers off in 2007, sawing heatedly at a violin, a fiddle, as it were, and finally, at long last, the devil was put off stealing little Johnny's soul in a Georgia barnyard.  Johnny would go on to re-arrange boxes in a Decatur warehouse, everyday, section to section, unit to unit, slot to slot, juicing the pallet truck battery, then wearing it down before having to juice it up again, beeping his horn at the corners of the shelving, his mail man caution light on the top of his unit, itself whirling and glowing like a lunatic in the staid and otherwise quiet warehouse.

"Prostrate before the law" plus "what lies beneath".

Absconding.

Scenery: some flashing by, that further, creeping, a stray tree trunk interloping, passing our field of vision at yet a middle rate of speed, common enough, but disorienting to the inebriate.  Einstein himself gave the analogy of the moving train, and the telegraph poles and the hills.  And then Freud picked up the narrative and said the utility poles, well, were not just utility poles.

The whole day, dissipation, the open promise of perched lips in a puffer fish pose, coming closer and closer.  The old clothing smell of Aunt Brenda, and the gregarious crimson of her chosen lip shade.  It would look like I had squished a spider on my collar, I wotted.

Up before the chickens.  No devilment beyond the usual, listening to the thin crackle of my body dying second after second.  How many days otherwise had we sat derelict, like abandoned Chryslers near the tree line?  Shit.  How many days?

Crimbus was coming, and the yuletide and Auld Syne didn't broach us without our prior consent, such that the day meant nothing, even as we passed the presents, unless we truly cared.  All the plays, programs and Hallmark movies said as much.

It was yet a season.

They had asked me, circa October 1996 or so, what I thought of my own future, and it was blank as the old chalkboards, a kind of indefinite passing of time, her hand on my knee as I scarfed a chicken wrap--but nevertheless, what nerve to ask a teenager about his or her own future, with me sitting no hope of much and so forth, you know, and put to the question, put to task, verily, by and by, to give a quick look into the fog of the future.

Some 27 years later, I can still smell the fry grease of that tall girl.  The movie critic.  The gay.  The closeted gay.  The motorcycle hippie.  The man on the edge of the football team, that nice suburb called academic probation.

"Where do you see yourself in the future?"

Ask that girl that I just kicked-out of my car.

computation of the spirit: found in the balance.

At the symposium, red clay and cold brew coffees, she scooted about talking to the assemblage.

Just then, a prawn leapt onto the decking boards.

"O!" She blurted.  "What is happening?  What is going on?"

Who among them, or among any, could answer these existential questions?  One's spleen usually directs the course of the thoughts, anyway, and the attention is so easily squandered like the very loosest of pennies from heaven, falling from the air, pelting us like hailstones.

Were we ever equal to the eternal balance, or would it always be somewhat of a shoe-horning into the narrative, uncomfortable, invalid, owing and lacking, in the eternal redress of the great thing we call reality?

"What is this new thing that you have discovered?"

"It's reality."

"Sounds cool.  You gonna have some fun with it?"

"Im gonna tear ass up and down the highway."

In the great computation of the spirit, we are often found a few dimes short, a few pennies this way or that, and utterly out of sync in the grand scheme of things, though something of it might seem scurriously familiar.

Are we all to mimic farm animals like Nebuchednezzar?  To be found wanting in the balance?  Or are we to dine on millet and give our devotion to the great YHWH?

Indeed, I brook not that these malinger, but that we have a kind of running tally of reality, written down.  We never explicit draw a balance, but we are aware of it, just the same, reality seeming, as it were, what has been, what is, and what will be, in place as much as we are, horrifically, as much real as anything else.

Ghosts of Christmas Past.

 

d

Whose buttprint is in your panties?

Whose ass hit the grass?

Whose windmill broadcast the fentanyl?

Awakened some two hours before sunrise, with a headfull of thoughts, myself, arms flailing in vain to take hold of one of them, to grasp something and squeeze whatever syrup of truth out of it.

I was, peep peep, head up, mouth open like a baby bird, to catch the still-warm egg from the hen's butt, and hold it up like a jeweler's prized setting, a signature centerpiece of some kind of shadowbox science project, from baking soda volcanoes to relativity, to the larger philosophical questions.

Anse Bundren.

Got to stab him when he comes out of the bathroom, in his walmart undershirt and swim trunks, stab his life blood, perforate his internal quiddity, and the screaming baby they might take, leaving behind a dull peace, or keeping it here, birth mother and all, gumment money, state money, WICK money and all, some thousands for its care that we spend on DVD's and stuff, Ricky's beer and all, but he would be in the ICU having vivid nightmares about Jesus and the angels.

I could dress him down on a syndicated talk show, do lie detector tests about infidelities and beating the baby, all the while, I eat in the car, change clothes in gas station bathrooms, and sell pictures of my titties to strangers.  You'd help, wouldn't you?  That's what a good man would do, stand up like a man, and me hiding the blade next to the emergency brake and the jutting straight up seat belt clicker.

EBT and 480/month in ass picture money.

Stab him coming out of the bathroom, open the narrow rear entry and roll him into the tall weeds behind the house, the trailer, the 1964 pleasure palace God Knows What manufactured home where we make our home, kill his ass, and then sit in relative peace to the din of the baby's constant wailing.

Whose ass print is in your panties?

Dateline 12/15/2023. Toney Mill, SC "Ross Sanderson Day of Rage."

One man's hate-filled terrorist scumbag, is of course, in the vernacular, another man's altruistic child-petting freedom fighter.

If you put each in a bag and dropped them at the same time from a great height, the splatter would probably be the same, like microwaving an egg or something in the gas station sandwich burner.

Such is the way, gratitude being expensive, and Liberators and so forth roaming the countryside, in the name of one Ross Walter Sanderson.

Hederbohr Saint-Senz and other pundits, holding the line, the balanced narrative between chronic dissipation and the lesser evil of murdering the unhappy, such called, "Good Versus Evil",  and in the name, one motorist slapped, like a bitch, by a cop, and so forth, slapped like a punk, without even the ethereal compliment of Dan Abrams commentary.

Morning Mika and Little Dana wearing red sashes, as if they were freedom fighters, like the old English queen affecting a red rose during her menstruation, Ross Sanderson had a trail of blood from his nose, his shirt-front dyed red from his expelling life blood, and given one toilet paper square by the proctor of the peace, the deputy without a bullet, whipped unmercifully, pistol-whipped, screaming "Mommy, Mommy".

(Ohtani is a bro, and a team player.)

I remember in the day, being one Kim's only hope for peace of a mind, for however many days or weeks, and then later, another Kim's only hope for recompense, and then so forth, other sundry characters, barking in the grill, and Crystal, knowing she wanted a Douglas X-Trac II on the rear of her car, and the Douglas being suspiciously similar to my own sex member.

Times like this, one can forget what he's talking about, and default back to his own libido, and Crystal, hiding under the bed, thinking, doubting herself, that she's just not up to it.

We're only equal to the dissipation we make in life, and the crater we leave when we die.

Such as it was, if you wanted another's success, you have to put in the diligence that they invested in their outcome, that it's only a certain time and place, effort, that diligence, and if you were not equal to that, take it as an item of admiration, and put it in your pocket, so to speak.  You'd have to strengthen your thighs, do cold water-dousing or sell your soul to Paramount or something, whatever the cost, that the surest path is to pay the ferry man, if one wants the ride.

This recent bit..... say, perhaps, January 9-12.

What choice words could one select to describe the intervening days?  

A seemingly random hodge-podge of things, a kind of collage diorama of so many things, that one, in existential confusion, could point back, without having distilled a clear meaning, calling the passing days nothing more substantial or inglorious than "life."

There were actual clear points, I suppose, and one can extract meaning, if one felt an unction, a burning little tittle in his gulliver to push his fingers through the lining of the bag, or one could instead orient toward the coming days, that promised obscurity that shall wash over us all.

There were readings, recitations, along the lyceum, the thoroughfare, haranguing the characters in my head with what I felt were important sentences, good sense, of the old stripe of philosophy, the "love of knowledge", not the scientific granular pursuit of truth, not since the fog of relativism came to the fore, something more distinct, that love of learning: ontology.

.....Anse Bundren, needing a new set of teeth, that to procure a new wife...... Cash's leg didn't heel good with the cement poltice on hit, and Dewey Dell was growing great with child.  The boy was hopelessly insane, having a mental condition, "my mother is a fish" and such, and he put an unclothed fish in the cupboard.  Darl would meet Benjy Compson in the nervous hospital, Darl smiling, and Benjy buggering people to no end until he was castrated then heavily dosed.......

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.

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..."

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.

Peace.

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.

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.

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

Dec 4, 2023 9:00 AM
Monday

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.