The Honda, The Gumment Benefits, The Ambition and the Clams: a moral interogatory.

 The pure gall of the woman, went up north past Wilmington or so, hoping to spend most of my Puzzle House check(SSI for schizophrenia: I get delusional, they give me money) on a big steaming bucket of clams.

Her, in a tank top, showing those tan arms, in her 93 Honda with some of the windows in it gone.  Food Stamp Green in color, as so many were, that or gray.  2.0 it was, wizzing and noising, sounding like it had chest congestion or something.  One of the K&N Cold Air Intake kits, just a stupid plastic box as a filter housing, and a weird ruddy filter with mesh on it, looking premium, to some.

"There is freedom within,

there is freedom without,

try to catch the deluge in a paper cup.

There is a battle ahead,

many vortoj are lost,

but the road never ends when you travel with me...."

Get it greasy and let the thing slide: on your digestive health, yarblockoes.

It was, as Kenji had said, "all up in dem guts", bucket of ribs, not enough cole slaw to grease the skids, as it were.  Always have some wet ingredients with the dry ingredients yer know, yarblockoes?  Such as in the day, lard or sausage grease was said to be good for the digestion by the old timers, and other than that, it was all greens and peas.

He had that sort of froggish smile, seeing them as objects of lust, in his own tao, the world was like a petting zoo and he liked most of the exhibits.

Historically Entertaining Original Content, and all that, yer know, yarblockoes, the sensational and that which is not likely to be forgotten, marked in memory without being a mark, even an AEW "hip mark", Mark 11:23 or Christopher J Marks, or other nonsuch, tis not this, not this, nary a tittle or jot, but a glance of a thought, one of many, but one box car of a long line of them running across the firmament.

Let me tell something on Spellman without being too flippant: having a huge sum after is a mark of the value of an education, not a trade school, but unlocking the mind, the thinking skills, in abstract knowledge.  I love it.

As the Beach Boys said, "stay true to your school", I suppose, and myself, of Willmington School of the Bible(now defunct) and Southern New Hampshire University, showing my true colors and representing for my peers.

Of augery and singers of songs.

And yes, Theodora Mundi was getting one of those "barbed wire wrapped around the arm" tattoos like a Playboy model, and he thinks she caught blood poisoning from that; I had my own theories on that, of course, being an independent minded young botchagaloo.  But what did I know?

Heraclitus Felix III had given a long symposium, at the end of which, he fell ill, his constitution drained.  He had strings of flotsam from his gentleman scholar jowls, and he looked a bit like creeping death.  The augers took one look at the situation, and took a gravely pallor, but pronounced little or nothing, as if life and death were mere trifles: this was the Tao of the augers.  They themselves spent time as if it were water, and money was even less than that, as water had a nominal value in itself, some kind of hidden obscure custom among the priestly set that placed no value on the things of this world but the life and substance beyond.

Indeed, Heraclitus sang for his supper, as of the old bards and the chitlin' circuit of old, giving his thoughts to a gathered throng in exchange for his plate of beans.

I myself had taken in the games, and some augery and some other, nourishing myself while the words were not with me, letting my soul sort of spread-eagle to the universe in the open air.  In the interim, I caught a quote attributed to Ulysses S Grant, "bind the nation's wounds", and some other, of one's mindset and so forth, and ministry leadership, as I was and am The Internet Missionary, and all.

What is this, I thought, of the tattoo mentioned: a sort of Tao or augery that spoke of not being beholden to this world, as of merely a "prisoner to the flesh"?  An eternal soul entombed, for a mere spate of hours, in the flesh of a body, as of the Madman of Gedara, and I start chanting, "aint no grave, can hold me down".  Praise the Man Jesus.

Trout's speculative fiction "Walled In" and then Prometheus

Public education was my time of bondage, and I became, in a somewhat rigid framework, a kind of non-conformist, for a time.  Meanwhile, the smartest person I knew was thrilled to be given a free high school education in the public system.  Not only did that person go at the work with rigor and enthusiasm, but he also brought that same rigor to his own time at home, doing independent study.
Midnights with Tolkien, compared to my pre-dawn Stephen King stuff, reading about bumps in the night and character anxieties: my 40 years in the desert was independent study, from trying to guess the time by the position of the sun in the midday sky, to learning album names of classic rock groups I heard on the radio.
A lifestyle philosopher and journeyman stoic, in contrast to a real scientific mind.  Fruit roll ups stood in stark contrast to pipe tobacco.
“Have a look at this.”
“Nah, I’m busy idly musing on life and circumstance.”
“But it’ll get you off.  Have this.”
And it was, the water from the Samaritan well, that which, having partaken, were supernaturally sated by the experience, a kind of pleasant thing of something jiggering in the neuro pathways, re-ordering the substance of the mind.
Where they put his name in an honorary spot on the lobby wall, the supervisors would look for me to make sure I hadn’t just walked out the door without permission, let an escaping fart from the underpants of the public school system, a man too stupid and intellectually restless to avoid stumbling in front of his own thoughts.
It bemused me that some of penal institution design was being utilized in the public schools, something of mental march through the desert, a boot camp badge of honor before we took our places along the line in adulthood.  Me stealing the school’s ancient and worn edition of Kilgore Trout’s non-fiction Walled In.
No better opportunity to take a minute and absorb a scrap of knowledge, filling the mind was something that increasing our ability to think, something that teaches, and makes the life so much more efficient, if not outright easier.
I looked at Anthony Burgess in paperback, that work said to be not much open to discussion among the faculty, as it looked at the institutionalized manipulation of a reprobate mind.  Conflict theory so far from their thoughts, as of some sources today, and a social standard holding unofficially among them, a social standard lost now as the thoroughfare by and large seems to be a confluence of random thoughts and anxieties.
Productivity, generativity, versus idle-navel gazing and stray thoughts that pour from the spigot of the mind like sleet and hail.
 

A brief history of dissipation.

Wherever one may find discontent, confusion, bile..... or conversely, where one may find contentment and ease, one might brook to say to himself that he has found something of the human spirit, something of the thing which makes one like Mike, in fact, Mike.

At the edge of the light, in the midst of cool darkness or even in the grice of the very swelter, there might be, as long as one is conscious of it, that is, that it very well is, and in being, conscious of surroundings and things, and yet another entire world in mind that looks oddly, unsettling so, similar to our own, that into which we were born and someday kaput, beneath the Holy firmament, and all.

Six starving women had a wager, amongst themselves, something to keep their minds occupied, that they would, some of them, at least, survive the winter season, and it was something that gave them an unction to awaken in the morning, see who had died during the night, who was left, alternating blessings and curses and so forth, the impetus towards immolation and all that, the taking of various sins and misgivings of others upon oneself.

Fighting amongst themselves for Hunt Brothers' Pizza and stuff, and going to sleep with the newspaper as a blanket, their stockings still on, for warmth, of course, and holding to that very thing, in their minds, that essence of life, like some kind of icicle that they had pulled from some cavern, the very monk cell of their inner-being, hanging onto that sickle as if it were the very thing that proved, a pookah, a totem, an idol, maybe.

Unto the practice of virtue, why, their was only marking time between dissipations and various bathroom functions, and it was something of a thing, any of that, and the tunnel vision of time beginning, at the edge of consciousness to take a blurry patter of a kind of most distinct indistinct marking of the thing, cases held open and people held in abeyance continually as if life itself were an indistinct, unmarked sort of thing, like an interstate highway without mile markers, an ice cream sandwich without the little holes in the cookie breading and stuff.

A stick, dangling in the air from the hand of an old-timer.  We cannot mark the beginning or end of the stick, neither end as it were, as if those would form the curly brackets of a set, because its that distinctly indistinct thing that blurs somewhere in between time and perception, therefore having neither a particular beginning or end, but may have perceptible points in betwixt and between, and time itself, and to an extent perception, nested sets, infinities being larger or smaller than other imaginary unimaginable expanses of infinity.

And the old timer, indolently, drowsily, whittling on the stick.

Redefining happiness, and drilling beneath the concept of a "new normal".

I made a motion, kind of a "shine-on" to some people, a kind of horn playing motion, thumb to nose, and fingers making the notes for my own imagination.

It was good.

This was, is, kind of an acknowledgement of posterity, a pushing of the football so far ahead, moving the existential trash pile several feet along the way, towards or past or whatever, the road, the forks in the road, the polk salad looking on from the ditches.

King Heinz, George II!

Unto our lives.....

I had took a little time, to "find myself", Lost Time, as it were, even as the moon went a centimeter out, I screwed my head on straight, and in rows and rows of empty boxes, I found my own quiddity, that thing that makes me, me, that bit of something, innate, "maybe she's just born with it", and then I was there again.

Was I in Thomas Payne's Common Sense?  The Analects?  The Nicomachean Ethics?  The Enchidrion?  Or even Don Quixote?  The pages of EC Comics or Mad Magazine?  High Times?

Indeed, wherever I am, there I find myself, almost a super power, to look up and intone "Here and Now, the hour peculiar to the present, I make my stand."  I need no pity party, but simply to cinch up my belt and proceed.

"It's easy if you try; I'll show you how."

"Think of me as a baby bird.  Peep!  Peep!  I'll be the Alcibiades to your Socrates."

The classical "MILF cutting grass in a speedo" dichotomy.

I visited, on the internet tubes, "nuts.com/owd".

The magical place, the "find the item" walmart game disc, looking for my own soul in the firmament, wherever it might be, there it is, floating like the excess toilet paper my mother uses, wiping all kinds of things, as if she were polishing a Bugatti in the bathroom.

 

Of snowballs and potentates, and almost forgetting one's own identity.

Mickey Fickey, do listen to what I'm saying, after its been a long day, so many snow cones plopped into the sand, boobs pulled away from your chin, but you take an appraisal of the whole thing in that dismal moment before sleep overtakes you.....  One only profits from a mistake if he learns a listen from the thing; otherwise its just a loss.

You do say, my snow cone, the muscle man plopped it in the dirt.....

why Lord?  We see how the wicked progress and advance in the common discourse, and the very poorest of the active people, in contradiction, are the missionaries and the people who feed us.

I heard men in the other room saying something about time being different, something they pegged to be 200 years in the future, as I'd always said something of the future had been casually transmuted to the past, such that What Was could be What Will Be, and What Is happens to be firmly in hand.  Their particularly something they said was 200 years in the future, and rather than saying they were in the future, they simply said time had increased speed, but only for them, that crew, as if no other had changed, that they touched some marker of the infinite.

Modern Day Sheikh of Middendorf.

I did some productivity stuff, nothing of much substance, but these little changes compound into a larger thing, a Snowball Effect, and these things become an algebra equation, those 20s doing magic in the power of the Hundredfold Return, and all that, going out into the world and working, lifting weights and all, moving boxes.  Finally returning, some eighteen thousand dollars in sum.  Or as such, 20 dollars a week, and such-and-such percentage, 40 years later, some 90 thousand dollars.

I was on a new med, and having to take the old med to do a little happy overlap, like Bob Ross painting bushes over sky scenes and such.  It was a weird time, I thought, in which my unction was more subdued than before, but that's not necessarily a bad thing, to be partly nuked into oblivion with generic medications.  Oblivion, as it turns out, is pleasantly restful, and the course is such that I never missed the fact that I wasn't all there at any given point in time.

I had a horror of that once, that because I disturbed someone's television time, they thought I needed some kind of knock out drug to shut me up, but then, there are plenty other factors, not to mention side effects and potential health complications and then my usual life stressors and so forth, love and money.

"I wouldn't want to die a monster."  Lol.

But then, being unfettered and generally unfazed, with the hyperactive glare, veins standing out on my forehead, about to be kicked out of the petting zoo--punted back to towards the pine trees, as it were.

Vivid dreams, but not disturbingly so, and they soon fade like car wax in the vernal glare.  And I think life is speaking, something, like visions and omens, and they had been talking about God actually communicating with people through dreams--with the recorded Biblical examples, of course.

I had a dream about my top money girl.  She was walking around like a general, manipulating shadow characters, and seeing her was so natural, so right.  It was good.

"But what does it mean?"

Consider how one reacted, in the dream condition: so natural, unperturbed.  It was like it was rather commonplace and comfortable rather than superlative.

Like love or something other like that, that I can be to some extent, at least a shading, a facsimile of a human being while transmuted behind the wall of sleep.

I had expected to be a bit......

muted these days, behind all that.

"cast you cares! cast your cares! cast your cares!"  The casual evangelical sputters, but deeper down it goes to something old, something from beyond time that calls out to people still today.

The person I am to her, is the person I really am, I think.  Its a riddle kind of array of things, interactions with her that I mark of importance by which I notch the points of my own character on my own personal vision board.

Thusly, by her importance to me, she, without meaning to, dictated my character.

"...the content of my character..."

The very paint I stir with the craft stick.

One thing I got to do, talking about the 5 minute appraisal of a day, I got this pretty cool analog clock that has a bit of a problem, and I actually have 3 or 4 sets of analog clock guts and motors and an assortment of various hardware for that.  So I disassemble the plastic mickey fickey and change the guts by taking the central pin and I guess, like Hills Have Eyes, where they guy bit the head off the parakeet, I just take my pliers and ply that to ripping a nib, the central little spire the thing does, you know, so as to remove the other and install the new.