7-26-18 How does it feel? On Fathers, Pascal’s Wager, Not listening. Repetition. Philosophical Jim-Jam. Key of Am.

How does it feel? When you do what you do I mean? Your job? Your children? Your Spouse? Your life?

If you’re like me I suspect you would have to say good and bad, mas y menos, Yin-Yang. Couldn’t be otherwise, it seems. But still the question is left there dangling? What (who) decides the difference? This is where the words would come pouring in, the history and the poetry, the feelings, chains of causation, a whole dense, rock-like world of cause, determining your effect? Or is it affect?

I’ve always felt the later, but am surprised when I discover it’s the former. Makes me think of that argument with my Dad, years ago. Think it was a minor holiday, someones birthday. Somehow I found myself challenging everyone with the flaws in the free-will argument. How when we take a seemingly physical phenomena like a ball rolling down a hill, the angle of the hill, possible resistance, shape of the ball, gravity, they all obviously determine how the ball will behave.

Biology seems a bit more complicated, yet the habits of most animals seem to us pretty regular (there’s the crux of the argument “seems”). And further look at our own lives, parents, time and local, varying statuses, preconstructed ideologies, how we make our own valuations and decisions. How much wiggle room do we really have?

Of course the wise elders quickly fall-out of this sort of debate. Seemed like it probably sounded like Martian, hippy-dippy bullshit to their generation. My Dad took the bait though, probably out of shared genetic instinct (my own biological Grandpa is not in the picture, likely because he would of took the bait!)…I’m really just talking to myself. But he got genuinely bothered by it. And then I think even more bothered by the resolve of my convictions, even my learning? Yeah, that was it. Somehow Pascal’s Wager got brought into it. The idea that even if God wasn’t true, shit was so heavy it was better just to error on the side of caution, to go with it.

I’d made the mistake of labeling it. And then producing a number of counter-arguments and solutions. I had been deep in atheism and apologetics, well beyond the straw-man college boy argument my Dad was attempting. And that’s what got him, I think. I had Alphad him in a way he hadn’t expected…He drove off that day all angry, after we wrestled ourselves outside to the cars, picking at eachother. I remember (I believe correctly, who knows) that I texted him right away. Apologizing, being the “bigger-man”, out of fear of him not talking to me, leaving it like that for too long.

He called me Master the other day. As we worked at clearling a patch on the back acre. He was having trouble getting the weed-whacker going. Had tried to ignore my suggestion that it needed some more gas, and even after filling it had trouble getting it going.

I explained, as I kneeled to get it goin. After it was off for a minute, you had to go through the whole start-up routine again, choke, press the gas primer thing, pull, wait, pull. I feel like he’s always not hearing me. No, hearing, but not listening, but then listing DEEPER thab you could EVER listen!!

I realize I do it too, with my wife. With my kids. What else am I not hearing?

Confession (On Catholicism and HealthCare)

The modern medical physical is an updated form of the Catholic sacrament of Confession. I went to a Catholic grade school and High School, with a brief sojourn freshman year at the public school.

That decision to jump schools was multifaceted. Priest, principal, and a guidance counselor attempted to press me about the sacrament of Confirmation, the ritual wherein a Catholic confirms their personal belief in the religion, and is official-official in the cult from then on, in the 8th grade. One of my proudest moments, was telling this gang to kick rocks. My true confirmation of Grace, I know now (and then I guess?).

My Mom was divorcing my step-Dad, and our poverty and her clear Jezebel spirit, I believe marked us with that gang. We’d been marked for a while though, I suppose, so it shouldn’t have been a suprise. And yet, it always is, isn’t it? This divorce was partly why I made the jump to public school too. Some self-inflected wound of immaturity, and commonsense. How would we afford to send me to the private school? I’d end up sneaking my way back to the Catholics (non-confirmed) through a “scholarship”‘ for the debate program Sophomore year. Note, the Catholics are great free-lancers.

Anyway, point is, I’d always sensed a lack of flavor, or should I say culture to the public school system, and really the gentile public in general. It seemed to lack a certain something to me, which I know now understand was its cultic, and occultic systems, and accoutrements. The singing and chanting, costumes, incense, drama, and the freak outs.

I realized today post-physical, while strumming my milestone-like Squire telecaster, that the modern check up really does have it origin in ancient ritual and spiritual/superstitious beliefs, just like them Catholics. The whole thing the pregame rituals, the signing in, the attendants, the silent (except for the background noise of the TV, which in these times is the equivalent of the bubbling brook), which allows reflection and excuse making, space for the coming cognitive dissonance, and morever the pre-pregame ritual, of the night and weeks before, what illnesses and ailments will one declare, or attempt to medigate with good behavior. The anxiety and anticipation of judgement. The inherent power relationship and the salvation that comes with it.

Your Doctor can only treat, what you acknowedge and admit. What you confess. We like this. It’s parental. The Dr. is a subsitute, for you and the thing on high, an intermediary. It’s interesting, because I still got that raging spirit to resist. Basically the only time I will go the Dr. are for these “Wellness”‘ check-ups for our insurance, which saves us 80bucks a month. My Dr. today was nice enough. A colleague of my wife, she had insured I would like his style and I did.

He acknowledged that in my case, it was basically just a hello, but that the point of this check-up was maybe to catch a guy in his mid-thirties (me! that crafty fox!), who veins are starting to chunk up with platelets, and get them on something to help them out, before he’s fifty and dead. I smiled with him, nodded along in agreement. When he was done I said, “well hate to a throw a wrench in your plans there Sir, but I was planning on not doing those labs today. Be honest with ya, just not in the mood to be poked or proded.”

These are the moments that give my spirit an invaluable tingle, the moment when that curtain gets pulled back on Oz, busting those lights on mid-ritiual, sitting there right in the middle of confession, staring that priest in the eye, and saying hey man what about all these other religions, what about all of them that never heard of Christ?

The Dr. smiled said Oh, Ok. I explained it wasn’t I’d never do it. And I’d done it before. Actually had high levels, but then I tightened up diet and stuff, and my levels were fine. And really truth was, nothing in them numbers could make me anymore serious about my own health, body, then I already was. So not today. I’d prefer not.

It was all good. He still hit me with the stethoscope, checked my throat glands, pressed on my stomach, squeezed my ankles. Indignities I endured, with small amounts of discomfort. As usual ritual tricked me into confessing a patch of eczema on my leg, but I recovered with the reflection that it was all good, and that eczema was basically an umbrella term for fuck-all, and if they weren’t going to chop it off, I’d prolly be all right. By the end, he thanked me for an interesting conversation and visit.

6-30-18 On The Rooster,

Kept hearing a cockle-doodle-doo (more like oaoaoaoaaaahhh) from chicken island. I ulimately ordered pre-sexed chicks because it was cheaper without the extra couple roosters, and also because we were attempting to take it step by step so the process ofndealing with brooding and pontential baby chicks all the time seemed a little too much this year. We had to get the electric fences up, build a chicken tractor, move the first twelve out, and later intergrate the two generations.

I chose a heritage breed called the Speckled Sussex. I’m really like how the birds look, like Jackson Pollock spent a weekend being ornery with em. I was thinking a rooster was afoot, so I had started staring at them a bit more. One of their bright, irredescent blue-green oil-sheens, caught my attention. There were other signs of a cock, Gallus Domesticus, an erect and bright red comb, overall size, a classical strut. These noticeable detail were improved and confirmed via the internets.

I discovered that a rooster will have more pointed feathers, while a hens are rounded at the end. The male will also have a bushier neck. And of course sharper and larger back claws, spurs.

To discover if an egg has been fertalized one must take a strong light beside it and determine whether it is clear or opaque. I did, but it was hard to tell what from what. Except for one, where it gone cloudier, and there the primitive first place a single lil red dot of cell swirled.

The rooster offeres a real-world introductory dialogue about love-making with the children. The love touch. Male and Female. Like Mom and Dad. Like You.

I wish you could have seen my sunset last night. Perspective through the bubbling hills of the horizon, it wore a crown as it set. Endless beams to infinity. Champagne hues, oranges and blues, golden-yellow, saucer center, sort of like an egg…

6-20-18 On Chickens, The Rain, 1997 Honda Odyssey, Stephen King Netherworlds

If I don’t get out early enough to feed the chickens, they start coming out of the electric fence. We must be grounding out somewhere, but all the fiddling hasn’t seemed to fix it. They all sneak back in though, once the food is out, but having 30-some chickens squawking at ya, chasing you around the yard every morning can be anxiety inducing.

There’s been a bit of civil strife in chicken land. Early in spring, we moved the original dozen chickens out to the field, in a chicken tractor, to let the twenty-or-so teenage birds have the coop. Eventually the new chicks were big enough, and it was hot enough, so it seemed best to bring them together in the coop, which was shadier and easier to do all the chores together at once.

The OG girls were happy to be home, but not happy with what they deemed to be the squatters in their spot. I had to play rooster to the bunch during some early feedings, to discourage pecking. Some general state of equilibrium had set it, I believed. Yet some on both sides, show signs of tussling, nicks in their crops and such.

Routines are interesting, how they build up so much momentum. I realize that every morning, that it’s my unavoidable habit of feeding them, after they’ve run out, that ultimately reinforces the unwanted behavior. And then I’m able to step back and say, what’s really the harm? Rather, could I calm down in the moment? Let go of the absurd resentment of a creature foraging for their food. And just allow myself to let the moment be as it is.

They stop yelling when the food is finally distributed. They’re eating good on kitchen scrapes, cabbage Leaves, and all the weeds and things they can forage, or are tossed into them, so I know the morning swarm is unwarranted anxiety. I’ve developed the ability to identify a number of wild edibles, dandelions (easy one), nettles, lamb’s quartets, purslane, etc, and the chickens tear through all stuff too.

Two days of rain have it way cooled down, an ideal late stage spring day. And instead of watering, I got to weed one of two large raspberry patches, 50 new plants total, that we just started this spring. I collected and spread compost for those and some pepper plants, while Britney and the kids burned our papers. There was a moment there, with the orange fire coming out the side of the barrel and the setting blue sky, I thought to myself, this is paradise. I couldn’t ask for anything else. I don’t deserve this. Grace made this.

Stayed cloudy til dark. All those blues and whites. Dark spots of the storm. Swirling whites cloud, thick lines of the painter’s brush.

The skies went that ominous grey-green last Thursday. Got caught out in it, picking the boys up from reading group at the library. Our 1997 Honda Odyssey, is an archeological phenomena. Mostly Mechanically reliable, yet defrost remains one of its greatest flaws. The rain, hail and four anxious breathers had us in a thick, Stephen King-like netherworld, at sixty out on the deep country highway. Had to demand the oldest boys shirt, which he struggled with in the thick milieu. Making it to our turn somehow, we found our gravel road deteriorating with thick rivers in the ditches, rolling with glorious and destructive tan water. This rain is everything. Even in the danger zone, we were grateful.

2-8-18 (a brief sketch of self, on the failure of language, and irony, reluctantly released, too much slip showing)

And it’s all just words, empty phrases and utterances. A man struggling not to drown, is what a writer (person?) is. But all that verbal flailing seems to be the core of the problem. All these extra words are just bad techniques which have to be abandoned in the next attempt. Just an endless sowing of existential angst, a tone which escalates in feverish pitch, but never hits that ceiling, never climaxes.

I’ve been learning Spanish. Do it on duo-lingo on my phone. It’s fun and I can just tear through the exercises, the same strength and weakness of intuitive ability at play. . You can feel the shared history of words from the morphing collective feel of them. Peace, Paz, Pax, Pace.

You know about the Tower of Babel? Ah, fuck it. Point I was going to make was about how language fails us at its critical task, namely talking to one another. Because there’s always this gap of language and inner psychology, that obscures shared understanding. You don’t know what the words mean, objectively or subjectively to the other person, or really to yourself either.

What attracted me to words early on has soured and now often repulses. I was trying to figure “it” out. The whole pie, in and out, and the words were a safe and more importantly available way to get at the thing. But now they’ve not satiated, yet left their remnants, and they’ve warped the vessel.

Not broken, note, just warped. To the point they can just pour and pour and fill and fill, and the original hexagonal spout, from having been turned so many times, has worn round and in the flood it can be hard to find and grip it. What’s worse (better?) is you’ve grown amphibious, developed gills and you can make it work underwater, but other can’t, and they start to pull away for air.

Citizen Report Number (Short Fiction)

“I just want to say–”

“Stop it. Don’t do it. You don’t have to say anything.”

“No Tom, honest, let me say what I feel. I don’t care.”

“Don’t care? Jen? Really? We’ll lose the Private Car.”

“So what? There’s plenty of room on Public.”

“Right and canteen, isn’t so bad either, right? No, it’s everything Jen. Once you start down-trending, it’s over.”

Her insides bubbled. This was going wrong. He wouldn’t let her speak. He never let her speak. He continued on. “They say I’m not canned. Say they’ve seen anomalies like this before. Wait for the bounce they told me. Whatever the hell that means.”

She came and sat beside him, grabbed his hand. She tried to look him in the face, but he kept his head down. She tried again anyway. “Listen, I love you Tom. And we have each other, right? Keep your head down low, work on your socials and who knows. You’ll be higher than ever before.”

“My socials Jen? You really want to go there?” He stood up wand walked across the room. She sat there frozen, hunched over for a second, still trying to comfort his warm ghost. “That’s the exact shit Ray and the guys said. Need to get you out to a couple Saturdays, that would help. I stood there smiling like an idiot. But you know what the e-vite never came and when I thought about it. They just sort of tossed it out there. Never said the exact time and place, like before, or other little juicy details about what we’d be doing. Remember that weekend, a hundred point bump off that. For nothing, sitting around drinking beer and eating chicken wings.”

“Of course I remember that weekend. There was Champagne that Friday in the private.” His memories and aggressiveness were testing her resolve. He had been a seven-hundred when they meet a decade ago. Not that she was the type to really care about those things. She had her own issues, a struggling 650. And actually the week they meet, she took a twenty-five point dump, which was pretty devastating at eighteen years old and in your first week of college. But he had been so kind, understanding. It solidified their relationship. “Tom, I’m just saying for us, I don’t care. We will work it together. Maybe you can come to my reading club? Have a date night? Hold hands on the public, show them what atreasure you are?”

Made her skin prickle the way he looked at her. It was the same Tom, but she had never seen him look like this, looking passed her like that. He’d lost weight recently and now his face looked different. Old if she was being blunt. Just standing there, he seemed like some bones hanging in the room, sort of like a scarecrow. “Well, they say there are people.”

“People Jen? A Fixer. That’s what they’re called, a Fixer. Don’t play games with me.”

“Yes, a Fixer.”

“We don’t have the money, or the trade. Besides dear wife, we both know a Fixer can get you locked down.Neither of us would see above four hundred again if we got caught. No, strap the tourniquet on, and hope you don’t bleed out, that’s all you can do.” He stood there looking passed her, through the wall. It was like the mirror and pictures weren’t there either, or anything else, but beyond it, way down the road, something stood waiting for him.

She stood up again and grabbed him. For a second he stood there stiffly and she had to wrap her arm around him, through his arms. She didn’t mind, but smile and snuggled into him. He broke a second later and wrapped her up. They held each other until their warmth and bodies were inseparable.

The walked to their room, and for the first time in years left the wall screen off. They undressed, made love and fell asleep. She woke up in the middle of the night. She was having a terrible dream. A shadowy thing was chasing her. Her head buzzed and her heart was pounding. She felt Tom’s hot body next to her. He was sweating too. She had to be going crazy she knew, because she began to feel paranoid that their air had been shut off. Maybe Tom had tanked so bad that their allotments could be pushed back. She really should study the Lower Levels again. Things could get tricky. She tried to shake it off. She try to snuggle him again, but he turned away, cuddling the edge now.

She got up and took a shower. It seemed unusually short and the hot water ran out. But at that point she wasn’t trusting her perspective. She wrapped herself in a towel and sat at their kitchen table. It was still dark out. She thought about going for a run, she could hope for a physical fitness bump.

First, she went to her page. There she was 679. Somehow she got a one point positive, since when she checked earlier, after getting the notice about Tom. That was odd she hadn’t moved in month. Well, she tried to reason, maybe things weren’t so bad. She felt herself avoiding it, scrolling down to “Spouse” were Tom and his number would be listed. Avoidance caused her to flip the phone over and set it down. She laughed and then almost began to panic, she didn’t want to wake Tom. Have him see her like this, it would ruin him.

They had to look though. Didn’t they? Stay on top of it. Ignoring it, won’t make it go away. She waited, until her breating was under control and flipped the phone over and scrolled down. Tom Mundus-550. She almost screamed, but bit her hand instead. 550? How had he lost another fifty points? Had he been fired? Had someone died? She wanted to pick up his phone, carry it to the room, get his thumb, open it and check his messages. Her mind began to scramble he must be involved in something else, through work, or friends. Something. Over a hundred points in a week. Another few days like that and they would be ruined. She had to do something.

She walked back to the room and grabbed her running stuff. She tossed it on and grabbed a quick cup of coffee and headed outside. She had three hours until she reported down to the Opinion Station were she would do her work for the day. She was currently reviewing Country-Western infused Japanese music, something she found oddly satisfying. She ran with no intention, but slowly she was making here way towards the shady no-man lands of her city. There were places deep inside the mega-cities, which people claimed were free from surveillance. Privacy was paraphernalia and it went for an expensive rate though.

She had no hard currency, outlawed for two decades, her only knowledge of it was from the news. As she got deeper into areas she’d never been before, she started seeing more and more people. She was out of place in her running gear which screamed above a six hundred. People started giving her creepy looks, hungry looks, asking if they could help her.

She slammed into a man out of nowhere. He was old and black. Dreadlocks ran down to his knees. He was smoking and seemed to swallow her in his presence. “Off the beaten path my darling?”

She was out of breath, panicking. Why had she done this? She was a fool. She wasn’t built for this sort of thing. “Lost. I was running, not thinking. Got turned around.”

“Of course. My name is Marcus. What is yours?”

She shook his extended hand and tried to calm down. “Jane. My name is Jane.”

“Nice, to meet you Jane,” he said, with a smile. “Now I think if you head that way, just keep going straight. You will find your way out. Ignore whatever offers are made on your way out. No need to be down here.”

“Right,” she answered. She couldn’t move though. He stood there, taking slow drags off his cigarette. Her heart screamed run, but her mind worked the situation. She was already down here. She was free to talk to whoever she wanted, right? A hundred points in a week! What did it matter. She was lost. So what?

“Fixer,” the word popped out of her mouth.

“Ah, Jane was looking for something,” the man smiled even more. “A little freedom. A little number. Ah. I see. Amazing.” His faced beamed, a light in the dark alleyway. She realized they had somehow tiptoed away from the sidewalk. Marcus seemed perfectly innocent, too nice even, which meant she was freaking out. The words poured out her mouth without thought. “Its not for me, but my husband. A hundred in a week.”

“Very bad. I understand. Marcus help you.” Then he stood there smiling, waiting for what, Jen was not sure.“I don’t suppose you accept E-points though?”

“No Mam. I do not.” There was more silence. He was coming to the end of his smoke. He stubbed it out and it disappeared in his pocket. “What is your husband’s full legal name Jane? First and Last?”

The whole world seemed to stop. She was crossing over. She realized how stupid she was lying to him in the first place now. She began to feel faint. This was bad. She tried to speak, and the words got caught in her throat. “How much? How does this work?”

“His name?” His smile was gone.

She told him. He disappeared. She waited for a while, walking up and down the section of the street. Then she realized a crowd was forming. Then she remembered work. Realized she would be late. She had to stop at the store for clothes, and then the gym for a shower. She would never make it. She had never been late before. It would produce an action report from work. She realized how stupid she’d been.

All day she was distracted from her work. The meandering guitar strings formed a perfect accompaniment to her endless stream of paranoia. They would pick her up after work. She would be locked up, a four hundred when she got out. She checked her score all day. Both of theirs stayed right where they were. 550 and 679. Here number gave her some relief.

The music was booming down the hall when she got home. Something old, big band or something. She got closer, it was Frank Sintra, way old. Bad omen. What was he so excited about? Probably meant he’d lost it, slit his writs and floated around the room dying, to “Aint That a Kick In The Head.” She stood and composed herself. Nothing had happened. She went for a run and got to work early, that’s it.

The place was alive with light and activity. “ Come in!” Tom called rounding the corner. One looked at her knew something was wrong. “You don’t know do you?” He picked up his phone. “Look, 600, was a glitch in the system. Strangest day ever. I woke up. You weren’t there.”

“Running.”

“Oh great. Well, woke up, hurt you weren’t here. I just stared at my number until it was time to go to work. When I got there everyone was just acting crazy. Staring at me, conversations ending second I walked in the room. So all day I can’t work of course, just keep staring at my number, waiting it for it to take another hit. Ray pops in. Tell me to come by his office after work. We need to talk.” He shook off the effect of the memory and went back to finishing their plates in the kitchen. “So I think of running, maybe go underground, go crazy, get a Fixer, somebody. I waited for you to call, to check in, all sorts of terrible ideas went through my head.”

She was dying. Every bit of her wanted to tell him her stupid mistake. Share it with him. It was too much for her to take alone. Why had all this happened to them? Why was he so goddamn happy? He set a plate of steaming spaghetti in front of her. “Take your coat off, settle in for this next part.” She made no movement to take her coat off, but just kept staring at him like he was a stranger. “So yeah I checked it right before I went to him. 550. I almost threw up Jen, honestly. But no, I kept it cool and went and had the meeting. Ray looked all serious when I walked in, but then he broke, started giving it to me. You lucky bastard, unbelievable. Said I was canned, done that day, the order had been filed. There were murmurings though. The double hit on the CRN just wasn’t right. You were shit Tom, he told me, just not that shit. He started laughing at that. Ordered me a beer, finished his story. So they checked on the double hit of the CRN, realized it was an error, double entry of my termination papers, someone really wanted you gone, he said busting my balls. Said after all that, they talked, crunched my numbers, yada yada yada. Think there was apprehension about the mess up with the CRN, said they were thinking of letting me stay on, if I let the double hit go as a fluke. Of course I said hell yeah. Ray was happy as shit. Said I’d be back to 600 with twenty four hours, and there I am! Bam! Said it wasn’t the damnedest thing he’s ever seen, Ray did.” He took a mouthful of pasta and stared at her. “Honey! Smile!”

Her brain was seizing up with contradictory emotions. She had to check one more time. That this had worked. She picked up her phone, went to her page. Her heart fluttered at what she saw. Thomas Mundus-600. Jennifer Mundus-672.

“That’s weird,” Tom said, checking his phone now too. “You’re down five.”

RELEVANT LINKS

China Establishes “Huge” Social Credit System

China’s Nightmarish Citizen Scores Are a Warning For Americans

Facebook Tinkers With Users’ Emotions in News Feed Experiment, Stirring Outcry

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.

Snippets #65

The Name of the Wind-Patrick Rothfuss

“Well that’s what you get for not listening to a tinker on the road,” she chided, her eyes drowsy. “Clever boy like you has heard enough stories to know better….” She sat up suddenly, pointing over my shoulder. “Look!”

I turned. “What am I looking for?” I asked. The sky was still thick with clouds, so the surrounding countryside was just a sea of black.

“Just keep looking, Maybe it will….There!”

“I saw it. A flicker of blue light off in the distance.” (539)

7-12-16 (Late Meditations)

8:15PM Blue flame of the stone heart wanes. A bubbling ripple of red rage thrumming against its underbelly. I step beside it. Look beyond into it into the great blue sky, thick white wall clouds. Stopped, like I am.

I think about what to write to you. How to paint an interesting, attractive view of my reality. The blog is low-key enough I can say what I want, but public enough so not really. I hate that the bastard truth would be more entertaining, but I don’t have the courage.

Writing is a dangerous sport. It makes us hoarders of memories. Paradox abounds, because I suspect it is horrible memories which float the best. Writers are trained on the horse bits of their own suffering. Lead around by a cultural sadist, sauntering in the latest fashions. You are this because you were born here, by these people, this is your life.

You hear about this Pokemon Go business? Fuck, right? Billion dollar digital overlay of the world. Makes me think of Philip K. Dicks The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch. That’s where we’re headed, twenty years. We’ll all swim in virtual realities.

Print

Not me. Think I’ma trade it all in for a patch of dirt. Give me some space to cultivate the blue flame of stone heart. Eat food from my dirt or die. Kill the Television.

It’s Babylon sickness, the roads, the concrete, the bad food, heat and sweating bodies. Everybody is so gassed. Rorschach tests from the sweat on the shirts of pot bellied old men. Diabetes leaning side ways, sweating at the bus stop. Skeleton chested woman in dated black jeans, and a stretched red tank-top. Three trash bags of diet cokes cans slung over her shoulder, making the three mile march to Wal-Mart, for what? A pack of cigarettes? The last five bucks she needs, for whatever it is she needs…

That’s god though, I’m sure.

Later, 10:26PM, kids in bed, post shower Dr. Bronner’s rub down. Everything is better after Bronner’s. So here I sit friends, 10:36PM, maybe an hour or so until sleep, then 6:44AM we do it again. How do we make it fresh? How do we make it original? How do we make it great again, and again, and again?

I think I’lll wake up and walk one of my dogs. Then do a loaf of bread. Made my best sour dough loaf today. Starter is about to take a break in the fridge. You could just keep feeding the starter, a little flour and water everyday. It could exists on your counter forever, I’ve learned. Fascinating when you stop to think of it. You cultivate a bunch of microorganisms that make your bread taste great and helps you digest it. Sigh. Babylon. You know they went to this ancient bread making process, stripped it down, dissected it, strained it, bleached it, reconstituted it with some preservative shit, and filled your grocery aisle with it, told ya it was good for ya.

Today I substituted honey for the sugar. Delicious. The honey for the sugar. I like the sound of the that. I love honey pots. I love bees. I like working in the field, simpatico with the bees. Pollinate these flowers. Float over here. Bring the good back to the hive, to the Queen. I get bees. Weird you can fit so perfect in one environment, so wretched in another. Seen retarded bees staggering from a shot of Round-Up.

It’s not good writing like this after a certain time, so I will sing you farewell dear reader. I hope you found your way to some Art today. The flame may spark red, but it burns eternally blue. I hope for you too. Get your words. Make someone else’s day. Stay in the space between yourself and the world.

7-11-16 (Slice of Evening Ruminations to the Sounds of A Sleepy Toddler)

7:23PM Interesting day. I captured positivity  by cultivating the blue Jedi power of the stone heart. The technique, meditate on the space between self and the world, in between the sheets. It’s there if you look for it. It’s a space free from emotion, free from engagement. A cool space on the lip of reality. Few others wanders there, a strange bunch. Say hello, but don’t tarry too long.

Grandpa bought Chay cookies on the way back from the dump at Kum&Go. He saved them. When we got home he said he wanted to make recipes, like with his cookies. I directed the focus, perhaps peanut butter, rice krispies, crunched up cookies, was he thinking of something like that? Exactly, he said.  We should bake them he said, I countered fridge. He countered freezer, fridge. We settled on fridge. I also suggested that maybe he would like them with a scope of ice-cream. He thought it was brilliant. I helped him sort of toss them on to a plate. There in the fridge now.

We went to the library. I love the library. Picked up a number of books. I am slipping on my reading goal. I wrote about the drama here. Long story short, I was trying to pad the list by reading a bunch of short novels, and it wrecked my brain with synchronicity. Then in June I got lost in a couple longer and more challenging books.

Going for three books a month, so 36 total, should be at like 18 going on 19, but I’m sitting at like 16. Not to far off the goal. Here’s what I picked up though, Lavinia by Ursula K. Le Guin, Ninja: 1,00 Years of the Shadow Warrior A New History by John Man, The October Country by Ray Bradbury, Night of the Living Trekkies by Anderson & Stall, The Complete Books of Aquarian Magic by Marian Green (little embarrassed by this, not one I plan to read all the way through, but it was screaming at me and I do love deep space, blue ring of fire, steel consciousness stuff). So yeah quite the stash, hope its not as existentially challenging as last go around, but time will tell.

As always, writer-warriors-freaks don’t be scared to say hello! And I hope you are getting your words. Really, say something, time is so short, make a difference, squeaky wheel gets the grease, all that. Let me be your grease.7:58PM

IMG_2544
Random picture of Lion’s Mane Mushrooms I mentioned in a previous post