Archive for Sir Marshmellow Trowell

from the terrace of a palatial estate…

Posted in Cigarette, Friendship, JL Stories, love n' luck, Poetry, Reader Requests, Sir Marshmellow Trowell, the lost children of the bokonists, TWTC, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on January 25, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

pterodactyls in the sky

ex post facto success & a 3 night score.
only after straightening out came my usual
liberation. dumb-fuck luck seein’ it doled
out liberally & applied fast enough to make
a difference in the dark. got something to
crow about here; if that ain’t worth a few
minutes of prepwork to get makin’s right,
what is? don’t worry about it my friend.
here; lemme get that fer ya.

i need counsel. seemingly none to be found
among oldies from The Leftover Gang; better
luck somewhere else. a voice i’m sure wasn’t
mine narrowed what’d been an abundance of
possibilities into fractional remains. no shot
at help tonight, no matter how badly needed
or honestly expressed.

blame is mine to keep as a signature souvenir
of choices made & fate challenged. it’s my
responsibility to ensure nobody knows the
real name or face of the man in charge. i
change it as often as i can since new names
are free with receipt & 5 proof of purchases
of extra strength bath salts. faces are much
more expensive.

this one way conversation goin’ back & forth
with paint stuck to the walls says only “it’s
your mess, you hafta clean it up.” how the
paint knew about the malfracted Peter Pan
side of me, i couldn’t tell you. the longer i
hashed it out with the paint, less interest
i had findin’ out why the walls were talkin’
tse tse flies while pterodactyls fill the sky.

————————————–

Inspired by three comments and a facebook message that all pointed in the same direction. Dedicated to a hero from my youth whose name is as immaterial as my own.

JL runs amok in suburbia…

Posted in afternoon requiem, JL Stories, Learning About Life, Loveable Losers, One Shot Wednesday, Poetry with tags , , , , , on November 23, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

J.L. runs amok in suburbia

yet another
short n’ long
binge on
amphetamine lookin’
chocolates
from a bag
retrieved from
the freezer.
cold to touch but
i need the sugar;
phantasmagoria is
too close i need
the energy.

remember the hits,
forget the misses.
spot-on
thinking for Jhay-el
luck sticking
to my throat,
longing for sweet
release from
dues to pay.

intensive morphology,
gettin’ to be
my way lately;
strange satisfaction
to J-Ell, or whatever
the fuck he’s
goin’ by lately. a
million names &
he answers to
them all.

if you don’t like it,
pay in full &
demand a refund.
just the Jai Uhl
way of doin’
business. some things
always change;
adapt or die off.
we’re welcome
to both via
determinism or
free will. ironically funny
to watch dualism
resolved through
shared finales, sotto
voce of course.

i’m already
half-way there &
my commitment ain’t
the question
should you be askin’.
don’t worry
about it;
you’ll never feel me
breath no matter
how close
we’re pulled
toward contact;
i’m dark-matter.
focus in,
because on
Jay Ehl time,
questions won’t
be answered, even
if precipitated; just
easy fun with no
risk to duck.

———————————————————–

You cannot escape the clutches of suburban dystopia no matter where you go around here. Some days, the cognitive dissonance is reassuring, on other days it is downright frightening. I’d take a nap but I don’t want to close my eyes and miss the show. With little or nothing going on around here, there might not be anything else to watch for a while. Clouds robbed us of the sun today, but I’m thinking of a comeback tomorrow. Right now I need iced tea, perhaps Mango-green tea with a splash of fave sugar (remember, it is the suburbs; nothing is quite real. Lovely place to visit, mendacious place to live.) Laugh, laugh, giggle, laugh…

(Second draft, first draft unposted.)

in which a boy forgets his purpose…

Posted in De Quincey, Extreme Spinal Pain, Hysterical Romance, Sir Marshmellow Trowell with tags , , , on September 14, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

From the Diary of Sir Marshmellow Trowell

9.21.08

This cigarette isn’t going to smoke itself. When I peer at the calendar, the fucking thing assures me a full week has passed since our explosion without any kind of resolution or discussion. Instead, it feels like one of those never ending days comprised of mini-days and nights going on and on, constantly trending towards oblivion but not quite getting there. Any punctuation of this discouraging equilibrium is muted; maybe I’m a balloon, but the pinpricks don’t pop my thin skin. Air doesn’t blast outwards, maybe because our inter-relationship is another empty holster, another empty hand.

We can’t discuss all the fucked up decisions that were labeled “insurance policies,” only to find out it’s still possible to radically alter that old time serotonin high AND pay the price for my intransigence in blood. Insurance my ass. Funny thing is, the blame should go to the dumb asshole who purchased the policy, and that useless fuck is me. I don’t mind bleeding, but with no way to stem the flow, it can only end one way. (We could jump back into that whole mirror thing, but I feel like we covered that already. I don’t know, go find that poem if you really want too. I’m in no damned mood for sentimentality.) More than a granted wish of easy money, I wish only to see my angel rise up the stairs and announce her presence with a voice that could boil a heart and eyes that could still a bolt of lightning.

Back on earth, the song remains the same. Can’t get it off repeat; the button must be jammed & the universe just keeps moving. Seditious history is remembered as a series of moments masking forgotten hours of weighing evidence prior to summary judgment and deep kisses. As the day darkens into evening, my eyes close in protest while the mind keeps building conscious reality composed mainly of “best guesses.” The results, while partially incomprehensible, carry little true meaning. Such is the nature of subjective experience. Like everyone else I’ve ever met, this ignores the weight of reality on such flights of fancy as emotions, pride, and what we might exuberantly call logic. Well, you can’t win ’em all. Hope springs eternal except when all seems lost. That would be folk wisdom, or what passes for such these days. What do I know?

All of this rambling psychological bullshit is as useful as a warm blanket on a cold night. I’ve been hard at work convincing myself that this is The Way Things Are Supposed To Be. The phone doesn’t bother to ring, and when it does it’s never the right voice… if you had any idea of what I needed, would you still be observing radio silence and trying to leave me on my own? Who knows except the empty bed and silent room? I’m fighting back, but the going is slow and as I said earlier, there is no chance to win. I just can’t give up without some kind of fight, no matter how selfish and counter-productive. Denying an urge to completely let go gets hard. Without TDQ’s helpful friendship, I’d be fighting alone. My commitment, my loyalty to de Quincey’s main idea remains as strong as ever, even if the eyes-half-closed contingent won’t give up on needling another momentary escape out from an impossible grasp. Despite being repeatedly told there are limits to everything, I know it’s an excuse to ignore the ignoble truth that escape is not available on demand, rather a method to combat those imprisoned by time & tide against their free will. Freedom is in the locks of hair hanging down from a voltaic beauty above the neck of Athena. At her temple, while sacrificing my busted frame, I keep looking around desperate to lay eyes on Athena’s form. So far… nothing. Continually disheartening to think she’s appearing as someone else’s angel when all I really need is that smile binding me to her.

With all of the concrete markers slowly assuming the shapes and contours of a bricked-in asylum, what used to be smooth skin smelling like an angel or some divine prescience is now a padded room where those locked in must give up their most precious delusions of grandeur or otherwise. This is all in the name of good mental health, a movement nobody could deny without sounding crazy. Amidst these strict sects of classifications and rules, it is never possible to resist the will of the larger movement. I’d just as soon carve off my leg than admit that my hands are tied and there are guns pointed at my chest, but there is no winning in a situation like this. No winning. Fight like a mongrel dog, love like there’s never been anything so important in your life, kick and scream and spit and punch and when the dust settles & the lights go out, my bed is still empty and cold.

Any manner of training distinguishes the torch bearer from the torturer. My own mounting frustration with such a pathetic inability to alter the course of events feels like sticking a hand in boiling fry oil. I’m just another spectator watching some numb fuck get his heart kicked out after innumerable promises to avoid this exact fate. The good Doctor tells me it is the natural inclination of my darling dear is to move in a direction away from this psychotic fool toward safety. The feeling of my angel slipping away is too much to take, yet my hands are still tied and my mouth mutters all the wrong words. Cut me, stab me, shoot me, bleed me out but give me some hope that the hand holding the guns or knives is yours. If that is the only way we can touch, I am ready to bleed on command.

Clambering on the cusp of such a serial rerun, I got a good god-damn idea of what not to do. If only the answer demanded could be found as easily, or applied as briefly to salve everyone that’s been lost and never found. By now, the devolution of such a fine personage hurts doubly; being an unreformed & unrepentant cripple doesn’t leave much room for desire on behalf of an angel, and nobody is searching for my eyes in any kind of crowd. All of this is really to say the ice cubes have melted in the glass; is there any way back? Without analogies to get me through the night, every poem I’ve ever read or written hurls insults in the dark; deep accusations of some kind of base-rate failure to support and maintain the love that dug so deeply below the skin. Everything seems an aggressive cross examination; I have no answer to give you except an apology, no idea on how to proceed into my empty bedroom night after night without sensing the lifeless sheets and uncreased pillowcase. Whatever is left of my confidence wanes, draining out with no support system to help maintain some small supply to be used in an emergency.

A mirror tells me there will be no talking in the end, no time to fix everything broken. I stand on an empty and silent plateau. This isn’t the first time I’ve been left behind; I am a ghost that rides every kind of breeze without any ability to maintain the beautiful, the kind, the love; once so easily found in the movements of a lithe dancing girl and her voice on the phone reaching out to me, surrounding me by the soft feathers of everything I needed.

It’s been a week without my angel’s voice, and knowing there are more weeks and months to come before finally accepting everything has been lost. I only want to wake up to find out it’s all a dream, that Athena is still sleeping peacefully by my side, smiling and keeping me warm. In the cold darkness, everything looks like Athena except the empty half of the bed. The insurance was a fraud, and another crippled wreck tries to walk without support only to find out that it’s impossible to do it on my own.

You were the best, and I’m terribly sorry I let you down. No matter whom Athena finds herself next to, I will go to my grave believing it was me that should have been lying next to her, talking of Persephone and laughing about the hole in Zeus’ head. All of this, and I won’t wake up to see you. Not in the darkness, and not in the light. Pacing the cage is the best I can do, and that won’t bring you back.

If there is a silver lining, it is only this; I’ve been tossed aside so many times, losing everything again and again. Be it the beautiful Athena or the frenetic Hera, I have to play the part of Hephaestus, swinging the hammer under the mountain. For a short time, I knew Athena naked and perfect. For a short time, Athena knew me intimately. Now, I’d give anything for a half hour or even a few minutes to tell her, fac-to-face, that I should have said yes when all I said was no.

I cant fight. I can’t argue. This is what I deserve, even if it ain’t fucking close to what I want. Hey Athena… you were right, and now you’re gone and I am destroyed. Tonight I’m crippled inside and out.

breaking down…

Posted in Descartes, JL Stories, Philosophy, Sir Marshmellow Trowell with tags , , , , on August 31, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

From the Diary of Sir Marshmellow Trowell
9.22.92

Terrible conditions from which to fight against dying tree leaves and shorter days. Desperation might be beautiful if it weren’t for the forced attempts to communicate what I don’t know how to say. Over and over again trying to explain how drowning works or why movement is desired but rarely achieved gets frustrating, alongside so much other debris. I gotta kick the can just to see the floor, that kind of thing. If it weren’t for cigarettes, I might have to revolt. Little can be gained from this whole enterprise, and I’m not sure how to explain it any better than that. Locked in here is staid; having broken my own spirit on the wheel… well, what next?

With the last of what’s to be found hanging out in the doorway and blocking every attempt to leave, everything seems like forever. Most of me is convinced that it’s all some type of coma-dream or narcoleptic state brought on by the collapse of some essential support system. The rest of me knows this is as real as it’s gonna get. Same as a recently killed pack of cigarettes. For most of the day you got backup; now you still got backup but it’s new backup. Nothing really changes and everything always changes. None of that can be true so it has to be.

Past these semantic overlays is the feeling of constant encumbrance. Moves like an ideal stallion, or maybe a bird of some kind with the strength to ignore down-drafts. I keep finding little chips and cracks; pieces of evidence that don’t point in any particular direction. Whaddya do with shit like that? Ask the question, answer the question, propose some kind of derelict reason, dress the whole thing as wisdom and play pretend? Doesn’t it all have to fall apart sooner or later? I can’t claim any kind of authority here. This is the what in taking what you get. Fuck it, right?

Searching for rationality can be a daunting prospect if you consistently look in the wrong places. I used to think advice was harmless until I began to listen to the advice I was handing out. Feeling particularly horrified by monotonous repetition, all the while nobody ever questioned if it was wisdom because of an unspoken yet agreed framework for busting through the seemingly insoluble. Simple in-group inclusion and the deed was done. I couldn’t help but wonder how much trouble I’d caused. Extrapolating from my own experiences with advice didn’t settle any nerves, instead pinching off Descartes greatest achievement (not my characterization, but you get the point) so I could pretend everything was going according to plan (it wasn’t.)

Well, another reason for the cosmic pencil to come equipped with an eraser. After all, the deed was done, all we had now was recognition and as many cigarettes as we could get our dirty hands on. Everything melds together if you wait long enough, so I suppose I could always join with the predestination crowd if my conscience kept throwing up the past until all I had left was stomach acid and a burning sensation.

Things could be worse; at least it didn’t burn to take a piss or any such bullshit. Nowadays, that’s cause for celebration, at least locally. Yet another in a long line of uncredited achievements gained by repetitious breathing and a little luck. That’s the comes in taking what comes. Moving past all of that madness, the constituent parts seem widely displaced. An overwhelming feeling forces me into a prone position on the floor. Faint whiff of dualism; every time I think it ain’t enough, it morphs into too much. Grass is green and the sky is blue. I know, I know. More JL masquerading as something other than what it is. Right now, I couldn’t be farther from caring about any of that shit. Wrap yourself in what you got on cold nights. Remember it’ll be just as dark on the warm nights. Take comfort, assuage hope, repeat as needed.

Yet here we are, on the verge of watching Casablanca play out one more time. Maybe there are a few rusting hooks in me. Like I said, could be worse. The last refuge I can think of is the desperation itself. It would be impossible to be desperate if there wasn’t something worth protecting, even if I don’t know what it is. There are only the barriers we need, and the price of admittance differs in each case. Playing pretend with rationality is a symptom of some hidden sickness or extreme curiosity, and whatever it is that feels like it still needs my protection, I am determined to play my part. The timing is bad and the rewards nonexistent. In other words, you have to sit somewhere, play that cards you’re dealt, insert whatever cliche you find least objectionable. I’m exhausted from trying to convince someone, anyone, that what tastes like blood and looks like blood can still be corn syrup. That is reduced luck and faith, distilled into 2 proof mouthwash that don’t burn or hurt. That’s where I’m going you know. Even Superman needed a place to hide out. I’m as far from him as you can get, so you see how this gives my case a good finish with a touch of gravitas.

Now is a good time to quit for the day. Cigarettes gotta burn if only for the calm nerves and relaxation to be more than a pipe-dream inspired by proto-evangelicals hyped up on speed and preaching like there’s no tomorrow. Careful where the advice comes from. Sorry I can’t do more. Guess we’ll find out if there is a future in oppositional attraction or if the whole thing is mythology. Gotta put your money somewhere. No use fighting for nothing.

when i smile you should ask why…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, Sir Marshmellow Trowell with tags , on August 19, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

From The Diary of Sir Marshmellow Trowell

What started as an interminable morning was easily exchanged for a more pleasant internal psychosis. I didn’t bother to shave, but brushing and flossing and sledgehammering the face smoothed out the rough edges well enough. To get through the next 24.5 hours, it was going to take every last bit of fortitude to push everyone else into the future, then drag my own fucked up form along with them. No gun or knife will be of any use; what we need here is to arm ourselves with the usual cagey luck that shows up only when a true fucker cries out in desperation. That and some great big brass balls to keep the whole movement on the right path. I don’t know what I would do if we somehow strayed and woke up all together yesterday. “Don’t like that sir,” to paraphrase the fat man, or, as you might recall him, Mr. Greenstreet.

After fixing my head and straightening my eyes, I found some music floating right where it had been thoughtfully left to be found as needed. A mango for my growling stomach, a sharp knife for the mango. All this junk in my blood mixes so easily with everything else, I’m wearing my easiest smile, ready to embrace the hours of the day when my more adventurous side splits off and leaves the coward to deal. Until that happens (roughly 18 hours from now if my math is close to correct) I’m pretty sure everything can be managed. Didn’t Lehman say those exact words? Ha! Fuck them, they don’t have my adaptability.

Having slavishly moved through the last four days, I’m ready for freedom. Every time I slither through this maze, the payments get harder to pay. I wish I could explain my willingness to play the game and pay the costs of business despite the giant chunks of flesh required, but all I can say is that I’ve got just enough reasons to tip the scale towards buy now, pay later. The rest of it is just maneuvering myself through the wreckage. Nothing that can’t be shared with the rest of the species. (Keep telling yourself that. Someday, you might even believe it.)

A few more flakes in the bowl to soak up the rest of the milk and a diced mango are fuel to burn up in the course of proving to myself some semblance of normality. You might question why someone like myself would need any part of that insipid game, but we’re all curious about that which we cannot possess. Same goes here. Watching all the weddings and newborns squirting out at an alarming rate makes me queasy. We can only hope they know what they are doing. I don’t, so I stay out of the whole thing on what might be generously termed “epistemological” grounds. Laughter still comes as easy as heartache, but that’s no reason to give up on either.

Maybe it is the same as an indecipherable language long dead. Fragments still exist to puzzle over, but the master key is lost to history and time. Now, that presents a problem to understanding, but an opportunity to ask as many questions as you want without limiting them with answers or those dreadful dualistic judgments. My questions all have to do with celestial navigation during the day or tolerance for pain. Plenty of time to seek out the answers, assuming of course that they exist. There are questions that have no answers, and they scare the shit out of most people. No time for that now.

Nor is it time for false-fronts of any other such clam-bake bravery. I hate dressing up, and for most people, I wouldn’t entertain the thought. (Always some connection between statements and language. Like meme is not the root of mimetic, yet in some ways, it could be. Get me?) Not long now. Mangoes, music, minor miracles considering the geography and poverty of this particular situation. GIGO, right? Perish the thought. It’ll work ’cause that is how these things always seem to go down to the wire. When push comes to shove, step aside. Let some other asshole go down with the ship. Tomorrow we just might be on top of the world. I’d hate to miss it, especially over some tenacious urge to follow protocol. Dumb fucks…. some people never learn. Don’t be one of them.

bring the band…

Posted in Philosophy, Poetry, Sir Marshmellow Trowell, The Marquessa with tags , , on August 6, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

don’t take much

fucking Marquessa,
nowhere to be found. i can’t
work miracles.

if she’s got any sense,
she’s probably running around
with Trowell. (you can
out-think yourself whenever
you’re ready.)

from recent reports,
i’ve heard things have
gone according to
plan, but she ain’t happy
with the results.
ain’t that a pot to piss in?

back from such distances
is like re-emerging from February
into August finding nothing
changed; impossible to believe
anything but what’s here.

i’m sorta rooting for her;
but it seems paternalistic
to think like that. better to
let it go and wait.
still impossible to believe.

————————————–

Too long gone to explain the specifics. No blame, just bemused personification at the way the world spins.

one answer to one question…

Posted in Descartes, Friendship, JL Stories, Poetry with tags , , , on August 2, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

teachings of a wise friend

gettin’ stonier & stonier in here.
i got a friend who taught me
how to push through inebriation
into something else;
we ain’t at it yet, but we’re
gettin’ there. tryin’
at least.

now he wants to tell me
how it’s gonna be, even if i’m confusing
the music and his instructions.
ringing that bell wouldn’t be new;
you might say it’s how i got here
in the first place.

serotonin is a mother-fucker.
first i thought i was depressed;
maybe started thinking there wasn’t
much reason to hang on.
after application, everything
was exactly the same,
except now it was okay;
an expression of chemical
interaction; no reason to cut
that throat just yet.

but my friend got past all that;
past obvious answers to
frequently asked questions.
with each new blast of air,
he assures me the same fate
awaits me. his mutterings
are by now so obscure
as to require metaphysics;
the end of the lesson.

stonier & stonier in here.
hard to see, light obscured
by what might be dust or smoke.
for a very limited time, i
got all the chemistry correct,
which speaks highly of
my fine friend. that the
high requires the low
as a matter of fact makes
for shaky compromise,
but for a minute, i
got it in my blood
enough to welcome
the discontinuity.
close enough.

———————————
I’ve said it many times before, but it needs saying again. De Quincey, you are an asshole. I can live with that. I enjoy that.

crb.

deal in principle…

Posted in Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , on July 30, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

raid on menechino

gotta get plans straight
between the Marquessa, Trowell
& Ethylene.
timing everything out requires
more certainty between parties
than can possibly exist;
offset by unspoken trust
spread evenly around.

mildly hallucinogenic effects of doubt
upon the evening
aren’t lost, just
exposed, tasting
like watered down cola
n’ some short amount of time.

altruism can’t save me;
trying to decide
what not to say in the garden,
how long to wait to shave-
off my beard, what hour to
call the future.
what to say.

between momentarily consolidation
i took laser beams to both eyes,
hoping for salvation.
now everything looks so far down
it might all be marionettes.
i think i see string.

by the time i’m
running low on cigarettes
& pacing out the dimensions
of the room, nothing seems closer
to solution. burnt eyes
look around without looking
for anything specific; grasping
at straws requires only simplistic
deprecation.

still gotta get plans straight
between the Marquessa, Trowell
& Ethylene;
timing everything out requires
more certainty between parties
than can possibly exist.
walking slow & lost
in what could be thought,
guessing that
everything ‘ll get straight.
it usually does.

still there’s the Marquessa, Trowell
& Ethylene to think about.

pulling teeth…

Posted in JL Stories, Philosophy, Sir Marshmellow Trowell with tags , , on April 12, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

once more

it’s dark & finally quiet
in my house.
for few seconds, silence is too much
to handle; music could
push the silence out.

draining poison so
frequently sought out
shakes a thermometer somewhere
while the effects countenance
no dismissal;
this takes
as long as it takes.

as long as it takes.
ain’t nobody ready for that
kinda answer. music continues
in the battle for audio
control; music can’t feel fear &
trepidation. i wanna be music
too. right now, during
days of prayer aimed
right into the sky still don’t
salve; no peace
in spitting out or shitting
raw poison. you know it has
to come out sooner or later.

trowell never changes his mind
on the whole deal. hopping back
and forth between bravery
& stupidity, he takes it on
his chin. he smiles at fever
and he sweats the chills.
his eyes don’t water, so he’s got
no advice on leaking mirrors.

you took the walk; now
it’s time to pay. i’m paying.
when the end of the deal
rolls off your back, completely
restoring freedom
of movement, do you know
what you’ll do?

you’ll slide into the graces
of a woman who will
give you the choice to decline
such a transitive bargain;
nobody ever declines,
don’t blame yourself.
it aint in our blood to say
“no more.” guys like us,
me, you, the superheroes
sister, all of us; we’ll give
her the money, all the while
promising ourselves
it’ll be different.

we don’t seek change.
guys like us don’t go looking
for trouble. just cool
buzz vertical progression.
this is just part of that;
down is part of up,
some things don’t change.

music makes it easier
to bide our sentenced time,
while reminding us that moving
is the same as living. next
month, the month after that,
and the month after that
are already baked in the cake.
all we’re waiting on is the
calendar and a fool.

flattery will get you nowhere…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, JL Stories, Philosophy, Sir Marshmellow Trowell with tags , , , , on April 10, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

Luckily, I’m pretty sure this is nowhere. The morning breaks cool before the sunlight chases those lower temperatures off the mountain into the sea. When it warms up, I can stagger-stand face-to-face with afternoon breezes blowing Westward across the country. All we got is the wind, so be sure to treat it with the same enervating respect as it treats us. Yes my child, that’s a joke. The punchline is the same as for every other joke told about a sunny day. It only lasts as long as the laughter does. Funny, but only provincially. Aim higher. Shoot the shit; that’s what it’s there for.

Playing at being a poet is not really that hard; at least not for me. Playing at being anything else is beyond question impossible; everything comes out poetry, whether a stitch in time or flesh. Being almost totally convinced that none of this really matters makes things less serious somehow. Even if the whole thing is a joke at my expense, I can laugh as easily as anyone else can. We’re all equal here. I can see it now. A calm man with a hand on fire, calmly placing the burning flesh in a vat of water to stop the heat. What’s left is not bone, as it would be in the funny papers, but melted skin and boiled blood. Not a word. Not a word.

So, starting with such imagery on what was not a bad day (at least not in the shared-use sense of the term…) ain’t really a problem. There’s enough other shit going on in the background to consume three minds, but all that shit has to be ignored for a moment while I play around with an old idea turned 59 degrees to the right. The glint is all different in this light; you can thank the sun for that. With the windows all opened and the sliding door slid, the cool winds blow around this place. I can deal with the drop in temperature. I want to blow out the lived in feel of this room and start over. New scents for brand new times, that kind of thing. Getting the picture is ever easier, if ever more fraught with misconception. Too many people talking means nothing gets said, and that is usually the fault of the listener. Decisions have to be made, people cut off from access to the ears and mind. No use in the magnetic attraction of garbage noise.

Besides, the cool cool winds chill the burnt flesh, and like I said, I want to start over. No sense letting all the old feelings get attached to the hips or spine; they’ll just rot and stink up the room. Exactly the opposite of the point of this whole exercise. When I look around, it takes a minute to try and ignore any repetitious images. Whatever is new is probably unrecognizable, so I have to look pretty hard. In the midst of staring, all the moving shadows blown around the room as the wind plays games with whatever is in its way creates hands on the wall reaching out, and legs on the carpet walking away. Figure that one out! I have a few ideas but no reason to share them. Keeping counsel to the self is one of those things I always took to be SOP, but evidently, for most people, that isn’t the case at all. If they are bleeding, they wanna tell you all about it. Unbe-frigging-lievable. No wonder Superman had his Fortress Of Solitude. And if fucking Superman needed a fortress, what chance do the rest of us have?

Batman’s sister still works toward the same idealized romance as ever. You can’t help but share some concern over what will happen when she finds out all that work to be different doesn’t accomplish anything. Drink up little girl, you have a long way to go until you find out you end up about three feet to the left of where you start. Even that movement can be traced back to the movement of the universe around you. Talk about uncomfortable moments! Throw in the Tallman working on raising a whole passel of kids and the Marquessa trying to find reverse on the gearshift so she can get the car out of the driveway and things get more complicated. It is in the midst of such cacophony that peace and quiet has to be found. It ain’t like time is going to slow down or stop. Finding out the reasons things are as they are is more like untangling the Gordian Knot than I would have imagined, but I like to think I have more imagination than Alexander (even if he ran a lot more of the world and slew a lot more people for fun and profit.)

So it’s Harry Nilsson for the win. Not a bad thing, and my mood has improved substantially over the last 48 hours. I can’t claim any active participation in the scene, just better results. I can live with that. Greed of control was something I gave up a decade and a half ago. It kept getting in the way of my enjoyment of this lifelong movie and simultaneous radio broadcast running the duration of existence. The emotional output is staggering, if you stop to think about it at all. Most people don’t seem all that interested, which explains why these little screeds draw so little in the way of discerning attention. And if you think that’s an accident, you obviously don’t know me that well. Laugh, it’s ok… that was a joke after all. Can’t win for losing these days. There are cigarettes and diet coke for lunch (or breakfast. If you eat the first meal of the day at 3 p.m., does it count as lunch or breakfast? I have never been able to solve that riddle. It does give me something to think about during the boring scenes, so it ain’t all bad.)

This is what happens when you keep locating the importance in the journey rather than the destination. If it doesn’t matter where you’re going, why not just move around randomly and with no eye towards conclusion. Fuck me, I forgot, we already do that. Ha! If we were half as evolved as we like to think we are, questions like those wouldn’t be such a problem. Throw it on the pile of other problems; I think there is still some genocide going on in a few spots around the globe. Maybe we should get that stopped first? No? It ain’t our problem? That’s good to hear, but I can’t lie, that really makes it sound like a few of us are right fucked. Sorry about that. It’s not really my fault, but for the moment, it’s the best that I can do. Get me? What this day really needs is a sermon. Perhaps later, for now there are still whales to skin and bunny rabbits to track. Somehow, I have to believe this is all the fault of Trowell. What else is new?