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.