Random Prosetry 

Creation of the World

Go ahead, you can’t hurt it much.
Tenderest phrase I ever heard.
Your memories are dry, brittle things.
A compost pile of self.
Emotions are the needed water, invigorating life, the microbes
Underneath, amoebas to complex structures,
Reinvested in other life forms
Half finished Frankensteins.
Devoid of moisture, fire is the threat to inorganic matter,
A purging mythic Phoenix, more potent, nutrient dense Mater, future building blocks of the Other. 
Born of old men, half baked narratives of a fifty year old alcoholic Sci-Fi writer, loose leafs on the slush pile.

Thought about PKD, the other night. All alone, with a full house asleep, dying to talk to somebody.

He said he felt Rome, experienced it one day, reality flipped, and it was millennia ago in Rome, and then he came back. I tried to conjure that as I sat in bed. I might have felt it for a second, an ocean marinated wind blowing through weathered wheat stock, but the Borg-head of current self rolled on the theater curtain, destroying the illusion. The technological entity of the future, already born, reinvigorated, forever.

Forget the old, its technetronic back teeth chatter. We can built whatever world we want. I see it squid like in the subconscious, dangling a long, notched vertebrae. 

My friend brought it up at dinner on Sunday. The black web of the future, great unknown, the future of true novelty; we have no clue what’s coming next! We try to rationalize, sure everyone throughout history feels like that. In a way, that’s worse though. That everyone has felt this way, adrift, without harbor, quantum sea monsters rattling against the bottom of the boat…

On Father’s Day 

Perfect night to perfect day. Seventies, clear, clouds like warships marching through the sky. Dad came out, went in on a rant about the curse of the family name, showed a big gash in his head, which he got after a pack of unconscientious gals at the coffee shop got him all riled up and he bumped his head on his car getting in. I don’t like when he says that, that we got bad luck, bad mojo, seems a self-fulfilling prophecy to me. 

Why can’t our genes be associated with victory, success, fortune? I smiled though and listen, even joke in a similar vain, accounting my own similar and recent bad luck, AC went out on Honda, needed new rooters and breaks on the truck. There’s no point, and its negative to fight it. Instead I hijack the genes on my own time, the story in my own mind. We have to accept the darker undertones of the tale, a bastard’s journey to kingship, return of the prodigal son. But what does Promise Land look like? I’ve been forced to consider. 

There’s irony in my Dad’s dark outlook, it’s the other side of over confidence. He was always pretty successful socially, friends, girlfriends. In his high school senior picture he looks like Super Man, Christopher Reeves incarnation. Tall, handsome, full head of hair, stylish white bell bottoms. The caption says he’s helping a younger student. He was class President, Captain of the football team, scholarship offers for wrestling. He idealized those times. His Mom and Dad divorced his senior year. I think this is what got him. Grandpa went a little wild, was an alcoholic. I’m convinced Grandma Gene,  Grandpa Pete’s mom, was a witch, a good one. She made little piles of rocks all through out her yard, stacked up at night under the moon and stars. I feel her in me when I stand in the field at dusk; we are happy, at home. 

Britney cooked huge steaks and veggie packs on the grill. Ran a notable grill, orangey grey charcoal stack. Grandpa played ring-leader with the gang. They teased and provoked, debating how the water balloons would be dished out after lunch. I feel and realize my clone like nature watching it all. How we are the same just slight variations in time and space, even my wife, and how we put up facade of separateness, but it doesn’t mean anything. My Mom had a falling out with her Mom, didn’t talk for years. But I realized later they probably thought about each other more cause of that, obsessively and neurotically probably. 

After lunch we had the water ballon fight and then jumped my rider mower, my Father’s Day miracle. I thought it was done, but we pushed it to my Dad’s car while the boys took turn steering. I could tell the old man had the itch to mow, he’s recently moved from his big yard, but he let me have at it, and went inside with the boys.

I checked in on them later, sat there in a row yucking it up and playing video games. There’s something here that transcends the tawdry, and cheap word “love”, but that’s what it is. It makes my cells ache, yearning to make it permanent, imprint it on the over-soul for eternity. But true success is only when you let go, praise and love, but don’t grasp. I finished my mowing. The farm is looking great. I’m happy like kid. Blessed on a perfect day, so lucky. 

Perfect Night in Des Moines 


Source
It was a perfect night tonight. The heat broke, has been ninety plus for almost two weeks. Won’t really rain, just spit. Left our little Eden and went to the big city Des Moines, for dinner with wife’s coworkers. There are those nights, summer nights, where everything thing seems clean, shiny, put together. Des Moines is quintessential fly-over country and I hope it stays that way for ever. I truly hesitate to even brag about it publicly, so as not to alert the unwashed masses of its awesomeness. One of the main reasons is per-capita, pound to pound, Des Moines is actually a world class food city. It fertile lands and deep agricultural roots, along with its geographic centerness has brought many influences and culturals to bare. 

This agricultural industry have created stronger economic health. This and things like the caucuses have made Iowa oddly relevant at times. I think Iowa, and probably that whole region is like the United States’ shire. There’s a good mix of political and ideological left and rightness, which at the current time and day strikes a unique and important balance. People are generally friendly, respectful, and none portentous, excluding the author, of course.

I like my wife’s gang at work. Their ornery and silly, and I’m sure they’ve banded together in the trenches of the modern health care system; these people have seen some shit. We ate at Bubbas downtown. They serve quality Southern style dishes, fried chicken and waffles, chicken fried steak, white cheddar grits, home jams, corn breads, mac and cheese, red beans and rice. They have an extensive booze selection. I had a Bubba julep, bourbon and mint and something called a Porch Sipper which was delicious, think it was bourbon, but had cucumbers, basil, mints and something sour in it. We shared and laughed. The server was charming and informative. Bubbas has a classy old school lounge and bar. And you know what, it shares a sizable class. Hell, right next store is a French-influenced restraunt Django, which look qaulity as well. There are more delicious and interesting things to eat in Des Moines then I can even try to get too. 

Driving around admiring the city, the patios were packed with people, smiling, with their friends, enjoying their Saturday night. Hope. Potential. Food is so much more than just a basic need. I was ranting about this to Brit after I came in from farm chores last night. How I didn’t want to be in Nature, but Of Nature. Part of it, not an explorer penetrating it, controlling it. How I feel a symbiotic relationship with my plants, wedding and watering them, how I nourish them and they nourish me, and how kids and families were like this; you nourish them, they nourish you. Talked about this video I saw about kids in India pulling a giant python out of the river for fun, playing with it, and how we still jump at garter snakes. How it’s better to relax about bugs and critters. Accept the swarm around you, pulsating with life. 

We got home and the skies took to play. Summer storms yearning to rain, but empty, dry. The lightening in the distance, striking a portrait at will. Chay comes to get me from bed, says the grey lights out his open window are freaking him out. Light slices the canvas, highlighting bulking, thickly painted clouds. An ocean of fireflies undulate in front yard of the house, dancing in the electric atmosphere. Fireflies. Never knew there could be so many fireflies….

Snippets 73

Ursula. K. Le Guin-Lavinia

Though people often confused it with weakness or duplicity, tact is a great quality in a ruler, whether of a country or a household; awareness of the other allows respect, and people respond to it, returning the recognition and the respect. Aeneas governed with tact, and was beloved for it. (204)

Later…

11:46AM Got over 1k words on WIP, pretty great, scary stuff. I don’t dare divulge the premise at this point, but it’s ornery as hell. I realize I didn’t explicitly answer the why, in the why are things so fucked post. I was getting there in umbra talk, the immaterial state of existence and nonexistence, which we emerge from. The truth is I’m not exactly sure why things are so fucked. I have theories, speculations, evidence, but not really a specific why. Perhaps there isn’t one why like that, some all inclusive answer. Perhaps the question is just too general to really matter. I see that.

4:16PM Realized angst-ridden rant posts are part of problem. As an apology I offer a list of solutions to the Suck…

-Jimi Hendrix
-Sunshine
-Foot Rubs
-Laughter
-Hot Coffee
-Dancing
-Dirt
-Sex
-Conversation with the Muse
-Effigy Mounds
-Pyramid at Giza
-The Sphinx
-Ray Bradbury
-Sunflowers
-Our Fathers and Hail Marys
-Ten Deep Breaths With Your Eyes Closed

Why are things so fucked? AKA The Problem of Evil, An Anecdote

Probably happens to you, watching the news, sitting in traffic, waiting in line at Wal-Mart, it just hits you, things are totally fucked. I see evidence everywhere. Giant grey produce bins at the grocery store. I like to go as early as I can. Avoid the fuck-stuff. Produce manager’s job every morning is to come remove the spoiled, wasted food. It’s a big bin. For days I’ve watched him just loading it to the brim. Delicious greens, pears, bananas, all just left to rot, then to the dumpster. I think about how much waste this grocery store has in a year. How little fruits and vegetables this neighborhood actually consumes.

Getting gas. “Kyle! Kyle!” A man screamed across the parking lot at his friend. Guys hops out the truck. There old friends, probably High School buddies, slap each other on the back. Start reminiscing. Saw the Texas plates. Thought it looked like you. Figured it had to be. Fuck, how you been? Good, good. How long you been in town? Few weeks, you live around here now? Yep, just a couple blocks up. Awesome, yeah I’m staying with my parents. They live in these apartments, social security type thing, up on 33rd street. Oh great…When did the arrested development phase of humanity begin, my mind wonders? I’m pretty sure I was born into it. I can testify to its presence from my earliest memories, say circa 1987. I’m sure I was aware of it then. Its colors are Pepsi red and blue, synthesizers and bass, Aquanet, smooth tanned thighs.

From research, and considering good USA specifically, I think the Great Depression strikes might me as a likely starting point. Maybe more broadly we would want to place it during the Industrial Revolution, 1760-1840s, when the massive modern cities were created, and people left their agriculture and tribal roots and got in the race for the dinero. But that’s just the “arrested development”, no more human beings phase, the true fuckery, well that’s as old as time itself isn’t it? Isn’t a bigger fuckery than the umbra itself, the primordial black abyss that spawned the whole thing. Where laws of physics and causation are suspended, anything is possible, welcome to La-La-Land. Table of two. We’ll get you right over here. Next to Larry, his wife Marge, a six pack of tall-boys, and a cartoon of cheap cigarettes. Would you like a t-shirt?

Lady at my kids school the other day had to be told to move out of the bus line. Multiple signs state this fact. A dozen people lined up on the streets, with signs, and vocals established this fact the first three weeks of the new school year. Most everyone seems to get the message. Except for the roots of fuckery, they never seem to get the message. She had to be asked to move. Almost gets in a wreck puling out, goes around the block, parks it on the median in a front of a house across the street. Gets out of Escalade (chop my dick off, if that’s paid off), begins to assault young child in the back of the car. I will beat your fucking ass, if you scream again. Shut the fuck up. Stop screaming goddammit.

I stand there, blood boiling. Another parent and I make eye contact, give each other the look. Social consensus, fuckery. The lady comes over to talk. We can’t believe it. I tell her I’m about to snap, but then I’ll be just as bad, making a scene in front of everyone. Fuckery provokes other fuckery. A chain of fuckery stretching into the horizon, a stunning purple and blue horizon painted by Bob Ross…

It’s 9:55AM, I’m in the lab. I am Holden Caulfield, and you’re all phonies. Let’s get these words.

An Antidote:

Snippets 71

Ursula K. Le Guin -Lavinia

They were solid, real, and needy. They were too young to imagine anything. Looking after them was a comfort to me for which of course I was overpraised and flattered–look how kind the king’s daughter is to the slave’s child. Look how kind the slave’s child is to the king’s daughter, I thought, as a sweet, languid little girl smiled up at me, falling asleep in my arms. (111)

 

Snippets 70

Ninja 1,000 Years of the Shadow Warrior A New History-John Man

Like a theologian wrestling to reconcile scripture with some alleged piece of evidence, Onoda took a while to see that this, too, was fake. Of course the school knew who had issued his orders. It was all there in the records. This was merely a way for his bosses to send him a message: Hang on, Onoda! We haven’t forgotten you.

On Words and Their Effects

9-10-16

11:20AM On a reading spree, spect it’ll keep on til end of October. I can feel them. Words calling out, wanting to be poured in, sucked down. Stories that need to be told, waiting to be told, and I am thee motherfucker to do it. Never had any real desire to really travel, though I feel a dull imperative calling at my end of days, a gypsy seed laying dormant. Now I do my travel on the pages, one word at a time. And the shit I have experienced would turn your hair grey. It’s giving me perspective on my perspective, how closed in we all are in our culture, the shit our families and the TV pours in.

You hear about these clowns scaring people down in South Carolina. Straight out of Stephen King’s It. The author recently weighed on the happenings here, said he was freaked out. I bet. Weird too, when you think about, if you followed his work. Spoiler alert here, but at the end of his magnum opus The Dark Tower series, King becomes a character in the novel. Why couldn’t it go the other way? The monsters we make up in our heads come to life. They do in the obvious psychological sense, but what in the really real sense? Terrifying. But, the rationalist would call bullshit, just some assholes getting off, by scaring people in the woods. Cause that’s what sensible adult men do, in the gun-toting, weirdo hating, trigger happy South.

Makes me think about those two young girls, who attempted a murder for the “Slender-Man” character. Claimed that he instructed them to do it, and that their reward would be a mansion in the woods. Makes me think of the mansion-world of imagination in Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke. I understand that book has been made a TV series now, I should check it out. Anyway, the faerie like, “The Gentleman” of that story leads Arabella Strange to a mansion in the woods. Always made me think of the Blondie song and video Rapture. There a much larger issue here of occultism, magic. The Jungian answer is that this is all a play of the Shadow-Self. Nothing to see here. Just you scaring yourself, so get out of the bathroom. We’ll see won’t we….

8-30-16 (Reflections on Dreams, Goals, Executive Function)

My kids are really the coolest thing ever. I don’t brag about them much. Not good when you got a banshee tracking ya. You learn it’s good to be humble. Hell, be down right superstitious. That’s a good word, isn’t it? Knocking on wood, that’s one I got heavy. Can’t make any self-positive prediction of the future without knocking on some real wood. Keep your filthy jokes to yourself.

I don’t want to rant, whine, add to the din as it were. I think that’s why I haven’t posted much here lately, this impulse to go on a rant, and be negative is too strong. I’m tired of it. Tired of talking and analyzing. Tired of thinking. There’s this overgrown path in my front yard. A couple of crazy invasive tree, limb things grew like twenty feet high. The forest of these invasive saplings provided the perfect frame for this crazy beautiful vine thing, so we just let it all go wild. I realized though that maybe it was blocking my afternoon sun, casting a shade on the pepper patch. I liked the privacy it offered, an organic hedge blocking the view of the neighbors, but then I have a hard time keeping tack of my kids in the jungle, and the hedge is just another giant thing they can hid in. Also, I want to reclaim the space for the garden too, so for the last couple days I hacked it up, shoved it into the compost bin. I loved that, just hacking and chopping, thinking minimally, sweating, doing work. That’s how I feel like handling things.

For the last month or longer this vision of selling our city house and going full country became an obsession. The urge to run, to restart, to reclaim a “simpler” life had us hunting properties, and talking to realtors, bankers. When you’re poor everything becomes a numbers game, get the whole feeling of robbing Peter to pay Paul, and that adds to the confusion. We began to realize that our current house is probably our one strong financial asset (as opposed to the crippling student-loan debt) and its didn’t really make sense gambling that on a country life, which would be a crazy amount of work and resources. We have a two year plan to get out of all credit card, and other short term debt. That was always a priority in our mind, but as we got right down to it, as in listing our house, we realized that it just wasn’t smart. If it’s not broke, don’t fix it. We have a life right now that works, pretty well. A place of employment that’s close, bills payed, school the boy likes, big enough yard and ability to urban homestead. Another huge point was the fact that staying on our current path allows us to put any extra funds towards fun activities and travel. That became the big final realization, it’s not about things, but about experiences.

Using my “executive function” that’s an idea and phrase I’ve been using frequently in my rants to Britney. Point being that as a parent, a leader of the family you have got to think in this emotionally detached, best outcomes approach. In the familial enterprise it’s not just your dreams or wants that matter. For some that probably reads obvious, but I think being part of the divorced kids generations the problem of egos and values was something I’ve had to give a lot of thought too. Moreover failures in both, are patterns I’m still really working hard to develop out of. Having honor, self-control, dignity, these almost feel like outdated, or even mean words. I think that’s a problem.

I got to stop it there. The force of the rant is just too strong, and the keys make it too easy. I think that’s the problem. The journal format works when you have to push all this drivel out by the force of your own hand. The technology takes the real work and punishment out of it. Thanks technology.