Filed under: thoughtful trips
Blasted on the main into a long Sunday night. The conversation swung in an almost unseemly manner, hanging off balance and moving from subject to subject without any regard for continuity. No problem with that here; it’s almost a given. We could theorize for hours, but this type of movement is between hallucinogenic and involuntary. There is basis for rationalization, if not as the endgame of a process then at least as midpoint between two points of widely disparate geography. On the whole, it sounds almost ludicrous, but taken in parts the entire setting feels perfectly tailored. The lessons taken away from these conglomerations of mind are completely arbitrary, an arrangement intentionally easy to accept and impossible to violate.
Even now, post-ordination and ever farther from the moment of inspiration, questions seem the forefront of the revolution. Missing are the more important elements, while time and energy are wasted on a litany of non-existent problem solving. Much of it is gestures and symbols, those movements cloaked in ceremonial unimportance more often recognized on the widest of scales as the trappings of great virtue and heightened social rank. Instead of behavioral theorems, rather than the continuing excavation of thought is the application of Peacock law, brightly colored but mainly distracting. Heather of lights building into corona, broad outlines full of generalizations, and nobody is ever sure of exactly what they might see. Formulaic? Perhaps, although it seems revealing in a counterintuitive sort of way.
For the most part, the most enjoyable egress is always obtained through an interdisciplinary methodology; the skills stolen from a dozens of different thinkers and artists then used to analyze and construct something more tangible from the various ideas. The same lesson as before applies here as well… there can be no planning for anything past the moment of inspiration. Once the remnants of conquered thought begin a second life feted by museum visitors and librarians, the newly installed idealism is bound to be hampered by the same constraints and problems as the aged and mythologized components of what by now must surely be recognized as the “good old days.” Transference on a macro level. Thousands of years of human history, all building towards the most obvious and fundamental conclusion. As the scale of any given problem or issue grows, the possible solutions must address an expanding range of interconnected ideologies directing the unassailable drive for continued existence. Seen from far enough outside the window, the bureaucratic defense seems impossible to ignore. For fuck’s sake, it’s all written in the mission statement.
The some-assembly-required manuscript doesn’t make things easy for the interpreter. We require a phantom nomenclature that is capable of referencing time without becoming strangled by the illusion of directionalized path or singular goal. Nothing is quite as blind as an animal that actually believes they’ve found the One Truth of the Universe That Explains Everything There Is and All The Stuff There Isn’t. There is usually a converse aspect of the messianic individual. Without a crowd, the prophets of the real faith are just another set of optimists raving about a nebulous cause to an empty amphitheater. The street corner prosaic scares the shit out of me. Nobody could be that certain about anything without trading their discomfort towards hypocrisy for singular centric assertions of individual dominance. You’d need quite a pair to start spouting shit like that. Well, quite a pair, or a total inability to comprehend the difference between greed and self interest. Some will always want more, just as surely as someone will always be there to suggest that an ever increasing reward is the surest path to happiness.
So another night relapsing from ends to means, and another fine and golden set of moments transforms into a statue. Liberal applications of the finest in mindsprings with a judicious formula for the transmission of harvested thought. It was meant to mimic the opening act, a sort of parabolic reenactment of an old song. It works best if the song occupied that rare but unsought place in the pseudo-memory of a culture. Individually, it might be obvious, but collectively, it is a melody that might remind us of something we heard as children, but could just be a commercial jingle. The more nebulous, the better. Easy and ephemeral, just like in the prophet handbook. (insert Bogart joke here.)
Hours of study combined with those conservatory moments replete with hushed discussion and perhaps, sometimes, even a sort of acceptance predicated on possibility and timing. The certain do a really good job of convincing. Oddly enough, the certain all seem to spend more time as messenger than recording the faith. Another funny wrinkle in a discussion that seems as good a place as any to end the weekend. Fare thee well performed, it’s hard to remember with much certainty why it was so important to spread the word. Sounds like a Tuesday problem. We can’t be having Tuesday conversations in the late hours of Sunday night. Doesn’t work that way. Just the essence of logic interfering with the perfection of indulgence. Fucking hell that is a lot to keep rolling around inside of such a confused head. Auteurs have all the fun. Zombies don’t play guitar. Bumper stickers talk in gestures. It’s almost 4 a.m. EST, and all around me is empty spaces. Bummer. Zombiefied strategies prior to whatever comes next. This guy never quite knows what he’s talking about, but that doesn’t mean listening isn’t fun. At least occasionally…
Filed under: love n' luck
This is an evening of choppy seas. Without putting too fine of a brush on what is glamorously general experience, it’s all string lines and tall grass. Someone was talking to me, but they must be mistaken, because the conversation was clearly directed towards somebody else. Why would someone go and make a mistake like that? I can’t ascertain the rationale from here, but from the fragmented memory I retained of the event, the most likely scenario (by my own estimation) are tremors in the land of the happy kingdoms or perhaps that unspoken longing for a new reality. The unspoken part aligns so many separate genre that it would take photographs and the type of honesty found only in history books to alter our distinct locales.
The whole sordid affair reminds me of the night I spent presenting counter factual evidence of various historical oddities and curios. By the end of the night, whatever provisions I had made for truthful and accurate reporting had gone right out the window. Most of my theories crumbled under strenuous questioning and analysis, but a certain percentage went unchallenged. An outcome such as that was unexpected. In the hurry to determine the location of any underlying assumptions and the relative value assigned to each data point, mistakes were quickly compounded and communication lost meaning and efficiency. In simple terms, the conversation, and all the depended upon it died on the vine.
How does this connect to the eery premonition, fulfilled through the most random of paper trails? Maybe it’s the cord that seems to hang like perfunctory punctuation on the night. A case of one too many lines to get through? A few too many attempts to refine elaborate processes into simpler models, formulaic though it may be? Nobody is claiming that information or motivation has been understood. For all the delight that it would bring to the many curious parties, this is shooting from the hip at best. Denial is right before acceptance, correct?
Mind the knives. I always bleed more in situations such as these. This was a good one, and I’m feeling like eight bucks a pound. Laughter, veiled threats, crocodile tears and tacit admittance that something hysterically ironic is happening all around us. This town is a wind farm; nobody ever saw that coming. Diplomacy in action, laughter, and hallucinations that something remains unsaid. At this hour, you can distinguish the crazies because their imaginations are standing still. The normals and the sane gave in to a desire to run wild hours ago. And so they did.
Filed under: Uncategorized
I had anger when I woke up, possessed sadness as eggs boiled on the stove a few minutes later, and found contentment a few minutes after the eggs had finished dancing in the boiling water. What is it about mornings that wait through the afternoon to show up? Now that the morning is finally here, none of last night’s anticipation seems all that valid. The night ended wrapped in newsprint, and had I been able to reassemble the words flowing at odd angles and opposite directions I might have had some warning that the morning would be spent looking for grains of sand lost in the couch. Fucked if I know what could have been done to avoid such a featureless activity, but camouflaged into this complex of head trips are lessons that are forgotten just prior being relearned on mornings like this.
For a moment an image of a man sitting on the curb with legs stretched out over the gutter. His boots are dirty, the kind of dirty awarded for really hard work in high temperature environments. Fingernails and torn clothes testify to the figure sitting silently, hoping for one more car to materialize from the late hours darkness into his circle of light. A million small towns reflect single lamp posts, flickering light, the smell of sawdust and oil and machines that broke down as the warranty dwindled and died. None of the picture was egregiously negative, just tinged with the kind of historical romanticism as addicting to the mood as powders to the mind. As far as I have heard, there is no known cure.
Out of the corner of my eye crawls what might be a cat, or more likely a few tangled wires and a black CD case. It doesn’t seem worth the energy to investigate too deeply, and there is no way a cat could have gotten in here. Just yesterday, a variety of citizens came in here pretending to be zealots of various backgrounds, but I knew they were only here to check out the goings on behind all the closed doors, shuttered curtains, and darkened lamps. I tried to explain they could have saved time and taken my good word that there was nothing to see, but they were insistent. The rotten bastards looked everywhere for something or somebody they referred to as “it” without making more than the cursory courtesies usually given to the master of the house. I was nonplussed, and made sure they knew as much. Whatever “it” was that they were looking for, “it” wasn’t here, and they left in a far worse mood than they had heretofore exhibited. Good. I wished them a speedy recovery of their lost item, and that each and every one of the motherfuckers dropped dead. That did not help matters, for their item was still missing, and my wish was not destined to come true. I hurriedly wished the sun was shining, and as I opened the window to make sure it still was, felt that rush of confidence to find out my wish had been granted. Winner take some, right?
Swaying in the warm breeze of late June is a dancing leaf that shimmers and waves as currents swirled around it. At high speeds it might have been a waving hand or maybe an alligator tail snapping. In all fairness, the attachment of the leaf to the branch was a dead giveaway that my perspective might be strongly affected by improper dosage of something that may (or may not) have been found in the last place I looked. Whatever was real about the whole situation, the only thing that won’t submit to doubt or false witness was identity of the object in question. It was a leaf that might have been a hand waving. It was really that simple.
With all of this time travel and discussion, questions are repeated, amplified by the echo chamber of experience. Questions issued forth by a multitude of sources, always qualified both textually and tonally. The main thing to remember is not to worry or fear admitting that none of these valid questions have an answer. Alter the context and change object. There are no plans to follow, no master justification for actions undertook, nothing in the way of a guidepost or educated elder that might suggest that behind the curtain of rapid approximations there is anything but more approximations. Somethings will work and then something else will happen. Good, bad, or indifferent the whole experience reeks of convenience, a natural amalgamation of infinite factors. We employ armies of historians to elucidate the plan after the fact, a species specific trait found nowhere else in nature. Our humanity triumphs over any obstacle except progress. Something not ironic, but most certainly amusing, bearing as much resemblance to narrative as the pope’s WC in the Holy Forest. By any estimate, there are something on the order of seven billion ways to interpret this latest theory.
The air conditioner has awakened to cool the room, and I freely admit that it’s a good thing it noticed, because I did not. Sometimes mechanical semi-autonomy is not a bad thing. The food in the fridge seems quite taken with the idea. Yet another success story of my species. It fits just between the distribution of food processing and the history of cola sales at my local supermarket. If that seems a detraction of the importance of home refrigeration, it is not meant that way. Obviously, something has to occupy the space between the distribution of food processing and the history of cola sales at the bookstore. We are not savages anymore. Time offers scant evidence that we ever were. Other theories for other moments, and nothing happening on the rotation axis. If I need help badly enough, part of me still believes that Inspector Gadget will show up. That would be quite grounded, if only I believed in his capabilities as much as I trust his punctuality.
Off to find another time. The morning has already mellowed into afternoon, and that is my cue. The song ends with me driving away, but it’s so nice out I think I’m gonna walk.
That was
Filed under: Uncategorized
“Mr. Jinx and Miss Lucy, they jumped in the lake
I’m not that eager to make a mistake”
(bob dylan “things have changed”)
Fantastic tremors of a coming storm have thrown themselves against the windows off and on for a month. At first, it seemed obvious that these storms were expansive gestures on behalf of some hidden agenda, but slowly that image dissolved. There was no evidence to support such an assertion, and probability gave ever decreasing odds as to the likelihood of meaning in weather. It was tasteless logic, there’s nothing magic or sanguine about seeing thunderclouds as nothing more or less than thunderclouds. I’m left wondering where that train of thought was heading. I have no innate sense of why these divergent paths seem to cross over each other, always tangled but forever distinct. Ethics, or, for those unfortunate sufferers of relativism, circumstances, are partial debates. This does not speak to their importance, only the location and subdivision of the conversation. Trapped by a language that can describe despots and vaudevillians as fixed points but never illustrate the shifting nature of terms as they mate with context to produce meaning. The process is messy, but extremely democratic. It’s sunny and the temperature is perfect. There is no coming storm. Time is a factor.
One most enjoyable evening, contents heretofore unexplained. The most beautiful sensation of the evening was the superb combination of acoustic guitar sketching out “Way Over Yonder (in the minor key)” while a flame shooting from a candle trembled, caught between the slow breeze of the rotating fan and the downward pressure of our fully functioning central air conditioning. The coordination was breathtaking; light wrinkled until it sounded like guitar strings plucked and strummed by fingers following a perfect plan. I watched, transfixed, for what might have been minutes or the entire evening. In the reflections of the thrown light were shapes, ideas, minutiae, the smallest possible divisions of particles capable of forming into anything if called into existence at a moment’s notice. Tired eyes looked alive in the mirror, a grant of youthful exuberance perfectly incorporated into the coming exhaustion of the flame. When the wick lost the battle with the wind current, it held all of the beauty generated by its chemical reaction with a promise to return with the next match.
The prospect of creating something this idyllic quickly went to my head, as you can imagine. The candle would be re-lit and snuffed out a hundred times in a vain effort to call its work my own. Plagiarizing from a candle may one day be a crime, thankfully that day has not yet arrived. Still, the movement of the candles discarded light never fully reestablished the glory of the prior moment. We could spend the rest of our lives coining adjectives that exclaim both beauty and determination, but none of them would be right. The realization brought little salve to my bruised ego upon the realization that anything so beautiful as to dominate a moment required so many variables that it could not be assembled. I was lucky enough to have stumbled upon a moment of beauty, but I could not create it.
The day to day scratch existence trembles from day to day before returning taut in the more long term romanticism. Time seems composed of songs, and the rate of passage almost malleable. The voices refrain “Ain’t nobody that can sing like me” (billy bragg & wilco “way over yonder…) in the pitches and rolls of solemn but amusing afternoons. There is freedom in calling out the assumption of anyone misguided enough to claim enlightenment. Just another cop out in my estimation. Enlightenment relies on something else, and its lack of mention leaves me suspicious of these copious pronouncements. Inside jokes and routine philosophy aside, it is the ultimate desire. A contradiction that disappeared in the beautiful light bouncing off of walls and glass panes, it appears once again when the candle dies. Nobody present at the night is talking, least of all me.
In the sun and the wind, millions of green leaves are waving and dancing. Coordination is such a misused concept, but variables appear without schedule, so make draw your own conclusions, issue your own demands.
A few words that don’t make any sense. Without any graphic or resolute context from which to compare the various formats of phrases used, there are limits to what can be understood without resorting to the gross brutality of logic and theory. The flow of time being what it is, the constant rotation of personages and ideologies seems a staggering load for a single mind to refine into component parts expressing any known stated value. There are musicians without lyrics busy composing, building music in the fashion of a bricklayer assembling the frontage of a colonial home. I would swear I saw (and quite possibly heard) mathematicians arguing about the design flaws of some mechanical contraption unknown to most consumers but dangling from the fake siding of the homes too busy keeping out rain to notice any kind of pulsing symbol. In the corner, Trowell plays chess against the shadows crawling on the walls, a blank expression hiding his growing impatience at losing each and every game. The whole room is alive, writhing through the day to day activities of the participants, sharing in the evolution of all possible outcomes still possible under the rules previously agreed upon by parties lost to history.
Assumption being a small but important part of establishing a coherent picture of the overall narrative, I have come to rely on the movement of large objects to mark the time. I fend off the well wisher community by focusing on the sly hypocrisy of advice not only absorbed, but acted upon, fueling the entire movement through the denial of coincidence. Things get messy, but not violent where the failings of a moment collide with the bravado of success and all it implies. The men who conquer various games with cunning investments of talent and timing never do discuss the role of chance as they enjoy the spoils of beating the odds. The casino requires time to exert it’s statistical probability; without enough of it, even the prodigious advantages of the house become no more than mechanistic roles of the dice Einstein denied to Spinoza’s god.
So time is allowed to pass because it behooves everybody to acquire any benefits to be gained from a process that can’t be stopped. We proceed henceforth under the proviso that the definition of the stability sought is contained chaos operating under laws that can be discovered, understood, and applied. This may be true, but there is a vague sense of unease that follows these thought-lines. Already having to propose fantastic remonstrations to coalesce our fitful logic into existence, the shaky foundations belie the predictable end. Even under peaceful conditions and advantageous circumstances, the fear of a known ending threatens blue skies in the form of hammerhead clouds just over the horizon. As always, movement is stability because it is the only immutable factor as applied to shared existence. How many times and in how many places a conversation occurs is a function of circumstance, but ordination? An impossible commentary seeking to describe the physical in language of the ephemeral.
Glancing around the room again, listening to the remnants of a past moment saved in stereo sound and beautiful video. I hear a piano and an upright bass. Joe is here, but not here. The grasp we have on each other is ever entangling, but these are often inconsiderate demands. The darker aspects of such a current philosophy supplied in large part to answer the wail of the romantics movement seem funny when disregarded. Ever closer we listen for the next bit of information, keeping the cheat sheet in good order. There is a reason for this behavior. In those moments of doubt, arising at random through curiously disconsolate times, those cheat sheets are the key to maintaining faith even though evidence collects to the contrary. I’m laughing out loud, thinking of all the people who swore you couldn’t take it with you, then did. Conceptual fantasy. Likely unimportant, but maybe not. It’s OK.
Serenade between a cigarette and trampsing through a sunny day. Conversing with old conversations, more cursory examination in the name of research, the kind of memory that is not so much rooted in time as in location. Asking in too forceful away scares off the memory, so it is a strictly soft shoe event. Sometimes the sentences get mixed up, and nothing about the process is an exact science, so I asterisk the results, only playing this sort of game to find out if there is truly a connection between what might have happened and what could have happened. That diatribe notwithstanding, I am fifty-fifty so far. Moments of the most inarticulate and tremendous faith end with questions about some temporal concern lost the moment they were found. It is another version of the argument about features. Who needs purpose when there are hundreds of new standard features added to your favorite products each year? What I want to see is the orange seed that grows itself. The physics are probably hard to understand, but whom would you get to write that marketing campaign?
“Time is a Lion” springs forth from the speakers, and the day won’t fast forward itself. The variable speed universe has got to be THE invention of the epoch. Adjust the dial, and give yourself a spin into the strange side effects of convoluted certainty. That is why we build such great and strong castles. Choice of location could have been better, but we use such high quality ingredients that I am positive even the sky wouldn’t dare to let us down. If that ain’t a seal of approval, then nothing else I say will convince you. Next time we might discuss the usage and practical application of nouns. Asked and answered in a fit of exhaustion, but research never hurt anyone. To the rumbling on the left, appearance askance and naturally in place. The picture that speaks only a few hundred words, and most of them are repeated from earlier examples. Never a dull moment in the variable speed universe. Trowell would be proud.
Filed under: Uncategorized
The first thing I remember is a decidedly ephemeral sense of unease. Flavors, scents, textures, all are gone, or at least the imprint of what it might have felt like to rise from a moment of indulgence to a moment of terror seem to have vanished. In an effort to confirm that the face through which I most often speak had not abandoned the body it came with, I stared into the mirror, trying to detect whatever minor changes might have occurred, comparing the face that I saw with the one I remembered. Everything seemed current, and as best as I could ascertain, the eyes that stared out at my image from the polished glass didn’t reveal any secrets. Leaving the bathroom with an increased certainty of self, I played with the leftover doubts placed so carefully underneath the pillow. They had scattered in the evening, and I had no impetus to search for them too carefully in an environment of shaky gentleman’s agreements marred by secondhand reports of violence.
Just like that, a moment of pseudo-innovation struck, and hours were lost realigning the stars according to some new theory vaguely remembered from what seemed like a faraway moment in time. With so many individual pieces of evidence to consolidate into a more coherent picture of momentary solstice, a feeling of inadequacy spoke in the loud (and commanding) voice of panic. The words were hard to make out, but the impression retained spoke mainly to the timescale and quantitative reactions involved. The records are mostly blank, but days of obsessively theorizing assuage only guilt, never sin. Something is still out of reach, exerting influence but not evidence of it’s peculiar existence. It is the unrecognizable differential between what might have just happened and a hazy recollection of past events.
Out of the sight line of the present, certainty is the drug of choice. The same story told a million times in a million places, details disintegrating while the story is passed on to all who might listen. For now, the comfort of silence.
The unexpected appearance of some specter or Iago was as frightening as waking up in the midst of some great alteration, clarity a far away theory not applicable to the current circumstances. I begin my counterattack against this insoluble with every weapon at my disposal. Like a story about a dying town or failing way of life, the first skirmish tastes like early morning beer. The effect is a cavalry charge, 80 frightened horseman approaching a line of men hiding in the trees with long barreled rifles. Even in the AAR, the best that can be known is the first few bullets were fired in some sort of confused idea of self-protection. My own army has a tendency to desert when bored or tired. You should see how much I have to pay just to keep the men in fighting shape, properly equipped with utensils of defense. It is through the nose, I assure you. Though the scale of my forces is small, the best are able to act the parts of three men in any one act play, and none of us ever bothers much with anything longer term than that. Events come an go, time staggers forward in that drunken path of continual reapplication of the newest in theory and the the most proven of practice.
Having no real rooting interest in the ephemeral tug of war between whatever masquerades as cultural movements and arguments, I spend much time wondering how this peculiar placement came to be, as well as the implications of such wide scale voyeurism. Nobody ever wrote or said that the cliffs in Dover has any real desire to play the role of mausoleum against a backdrop of depressed Europeans. Still, the image lingers, moving in the routine currents of fiction. Should the question be rephrased, the answer would have sufficient gravity to alter the meaning, but never the form.
The running joke as to the temporal nature of the means available to alter the situation swirling madly and, more often than not, randomly are few and mainly immaginary. I learned to manipulate the other side of that equation with the clever addition and subtraction of the (redacted) things such as (redacted), (redacted), and, occasionally, in emergencies, (redacted). The actual recipes and traditions are of course considered prized trade secrets, nothing that can be given away without total immersion in the program. The normalization process is arduous, but fun when considered from an observer’s POV. I won’t lie and say that there aren’t severe repercussions as well as a considerably greater chance of making an accidental mistake, but some risks and fears can be overcome. The corollary will go unreported here. It is both obvious and emasculating.
The fortification process mirrors the desire to learn the subtle methods of altering the chemistry of a landscape large enough to generate a horizon. The intake is atrocious, but the results are powerful medicine, an accumulation of bravery and clarity replete with the kind of images and faith indicating a contemptuous soul at rest amongst the spinning background. It is a method to banish the petty ideal of simplicity, to accept on credit the idea that nothing is locked into space or time that we cannot pull into some alternate moment or locale.
My supplies are actually pretty well off, considering the recent run on the store. Nobody really knows much about the diminutive goings on, but when they assemble for a moments beatitude, even the experts and logicians couldn’t establish anything resembling the primacy of one idea superseding another. The timer goes off and the night sort of implodes, the artificial forces of extrusion finally tiring, then losing the battle with the crushing internal pressure. Awake but unsure of the course of events, there is a need to establish an entirely new outpost in the wild lands. Powder, the stuff of the last revolution in fitness of the mind, escapes into the wind. The great outdoors beckons with the promise of yet more illustrations and contradictions. Everything that settles and descends to rest in the middle of a motionless night begins to rise and move, throwing off light and carefully arbitrated peace treaties to reengage my battalion with a divisions worth of idly contemplated possibilities. It is a fierce incomprehension, debilitating to a mind only warm, not yet hot.
For the italicized pieces of meaning hidden amongst the blue aluminum cans, red letters seem to lean and shudder as the distance between observation and assimilation rises and falls, the heavy breathing exemplifying some arcane concept making no sense to a mind already numb to its contents. New records are made, celebrities rotate in and out of focus, all the trappings of a man on the way to what some people might describe as a sudden alteration of status. The view is beautiful until the window closes. This bothers me not, as I have a pocket bursting with quarters, and each one buys me at least ten seconds of the gorgeous vista available to the human eye. From here, even the red shifting galaxies fleeing our sight and mind are clearly failing to fade from view. I won’t even tell you about the blue shifted light of the wonders still moving towards us at such high velocity. Suddenly a car breaks the silence of the street. The kingdom has trusted allies among the mysterious faces showing themselves only for the briefest differential, and we can never fail to welcome the shrewd emissary, hopefully learning from the different methods and point of view.
A dirty street, hot in the early afternoon sun moves past the eyes of a bird returning from a long trip. The small wings don’t know anything except constancy, the constancy of an that seems to extend from total devotion to short term needs. I am torn by my inability to determine if this is a cautionary tale or yet another example of line item focus and the benefits of deficiencies of imagination. I hear a sudden laugh over my shoulder, and notice my reflection in the mirror. That rotten bastard almost looks like he’s enjoying my panic in a disordered and vacuous land. I wouldn’t put it past him. Still, you really can’t fault anyone willing to admit his deficiencies before lauding his finely honed strengths. Seriously, if this writing thing doesn’t work out, there is a real future in sophism. It doesn’t have to be quite as incomprehensible and unethical as it sounds. Treehorn was right. Standards have fallen these days. Thank the flying spaghetti monster he ended on a more positive note. Nothing ventured, something learned. Doesn’t usually work that way, but victories must be taken when they occur.
Less to the point, I need to decide what to do about my beard. It’s living on my face rent free, and I really feel like I should be getting something for territory. There is time for that later. Someone said something about the mini-golf course. I have to gather my finest clothes. Nice society doesn’t have to mean cotillion, but you never know….it might. Hahahahaha, fuck that. I have to get going, there are mirrors to cover with non reflective posters and something about working on my putts. I’ll give you what I have on me, and we’ll call it even.
It started badly on Sunday. I can’t be sure why, though, as always, I have a few theories. Since none of them are rational, there’s no point in offering them here, when they would be in effect gibberish. Suffice it to say that Sunday wasn’t the right time. Surely there are the usual physical occurrences, the materialistic expression of infinitesimal particles bouncing off of each other. The evening was a missed opportunity that seemed to align us on a much more interesting path. Accidentally ordained moments, crafted from parts of the present joined with scattered pieces of possible future outcomes that somehow produce reality. Events proceeded apace, and with results as definitive as a 45% differential between home and away, I consider the whole matter done.
My greatest love are the connections that can be found in the various twisted travels that brought meaning to what could be unimportant events held in faraway lands. It’s been long enough that all able to remember the previous victory have marked time yet again. Some would call it petty larceny to steal from the past in this manner, making comparisons between the clarity of the present and the essence of the past. Seems a fair judgment, but I must question the honesty of writing off that moment of absolute longing for something painfully close but just out of reach. All of these moments of unabated joy also hint at the true nature of our shared diaspora. One note of caution: this is not to be taken as implying a bittersweet component to a moment as comfortable as this. Motion is continual, regardless of prayers, wishes, or logic. Feelings are usually overrated, but moments like these, moments that inspire knowledge of how connected our existence is are not to be missed.
The assembled group played ceremonial games passed down from friend to friend, city to city, and past to present. All events matched up nicely, a puzzle that fell from the box already completed. There was no singular nucleus. Instead, tiny concentrations of interest would form and dissolve, the gravity of personalities forming a constantly shifting set of sub-groups, nothing formal or rigid but flowing easily into the evening, time passing but unnoticed. The ease with which this unformed dust coalesced onto a plateau was something special. With the general confusion arising from how time really works, there isn’t much sympathy to be found looking at the characterizations of a single vantage point. Another enjoyable moment. Another connection to whatever it is that determines the difference between circumstances and circumspection. “Greatly enjoyable” suggests happiness with a wide latitude for comfortable enjoyment of the evening. The smile I’ll wear to bed is equal parts journey and destination. That said, if the destination sucked, should anyone really be celebrating the journey? I’m looking at you, in the West…
