angst / free = ?

I wish it were a divide. It's more like a splintering, or maybe what the sidewalk looks like after you drop that nice French 60-year-old-vine Carignon from Languedoc. The one that was going to meld nicely with that leg of lamb you had roasting in the oven. The one you were going to share that evening to honor and impress your guest, and the end result may have won you a heartfelt gratitude, might have even gotten you laid. And so now before you, splattered about your feet in every direction, is you well intent, your creative ambition, and your most likely unrequited lust. You might as well be staring at the Democratic party. Here's an interesting read on this subject... Bridging the Democratic Divide ...and it is a concern. Our society has been so segmented from the residuals of the last few regimes, the damage is deep and reading the map to all the different roads to solution is mind numbing. One wonders if our current political system is capable of providing a base or framework of which we can build success on. We can't even agree on what success is. Image what it would take to agree on a change in our government structure...

Another topic that's a sore spot with me, the current lie from those least who benefit the most, that we are in a free market system befitting the standards set forth 240 years ago by those forefather dudes conservatives like to insessantly quote to spin their agenda. Actually, I really liked Ben Franklin. I know he got high more than he didn't. Anyway, I'm not feeling too free in the market place lately, as "free" means to be freely assaulted by big box stores with more money than thou or thee to sway government with high priced packs of rabid lawyers so as to pummel micro-business into oblivion, or worst yet, submission. Then there is the ability of employers for the common good afforded us by the benevolencey (cough-cough) of capitalism to freely degrade salaries into some sub-servitude realm where the most people on the planet work for the least amount of pay. Stocks go up in value when that happens.

25 till nil...

I'm contemplating how to hunker down for the last quarter of my life, I am of course assuming I have that time left usable. I've basically been inept as far as monetary success and really see little need to expend much more energy in a lost cause. I've thought of hermitville, a place one of curmudgeonly fortitude retreats to when hermititis sets in and the world as it is valued makes no sense... like it ever did. Denial works that magic. We want to believe that which cannot be true of ourselves... we want to fit in, we want acceptance. I die many deaths for the opportunities to contribute. Unfortunately, contribution is in the eye of the beholder and the beholders that be find little value in my attempts.

A return to minimalism has crossed my mind. Remove the leverage and remove the constraints. I attempted it once several years ago, but I could not elevate that part of my consciousness beyond the greed of need. I could not surpass the majority of my surroundings. Their will was greater than mine. Another failure. I have begun a submergence into a poetic philosophical realm, a dangerous one, a place where I have more to lose than gain, where standards cannot apply and the comfort zones of others are severely stretched. They accentuate outcome. I accentuate journey. These differences could be deemed irreconcilable and thus damaging. Freedom versus abandonment and exile. That is a two against one scenario.

I continue with the war, and it is a war whether with yourself or with an external foe.

I love this quote:

"Strange pleasures are known to him who flaunts the immarcescible purple of
poetry before the color-blind. -- Clark Ashton Smith, "Epigrams and Apothegms"

And immarcescible; what a word. Unfading, incorruptible, and quite French. I wish I could be that pretentiously smug and comfortable with it... or maybe that confident and comfortable with it. I too often feel I am amidst the color-blind. I cannot make them see what they are missing. I cannot make them feel what they touch. I've launched a thousand dreams into being only to see them wither away back into the nothingness from where they sprang, buried forever, dust blowing in the wind, rust eating its way into nothingness. I am not manipulative that way. And there are punishments. So my dreams are written, and they are either read or not. They can be erased, burned, tossed, or ignored; but never retracted, never censored before the ink dries, and never reprinted without permission. They can be dispelled, dismissed, and challenged beyond recognition; but never before the ink is dry. And I get to decide when the ink is dry.

input overfow

I read once about how the conduit of information processing joining the source to the destination is only as efficient as the point of final entry... one's mind, and as each of us have separate capabilities along those lines, how does a standardized needing, wanting, gotta have it maximum bandwidth and giga this and giga that promotion really pan out as necessity? For me, the ease of access translates into a log-jam of more stuff I can't get to, something else to back up in the plumbing, waiting to be dealt with later. My cup runnith over and not in a good way. This wiring has now become wireless and thus portable, allowing for remote baggage to be carried at all times, instantaneous connectivity to any and all things pulsating simultaneous or sequential throughout the known universe. This baggage is fine and dandy as far as Homeland Security is concerned and therefore is not subject to inspection or confiscation. It is mine to deal with. The limitations of weight are nonexistent and supposedly does not affect take-offs or landings. Theoretically, I can jettison the baggage at anytime, at my own risk. I think this comes under the heading of taking responsibility for one's own actions.

There is something in the underworld of digital transmission called a CRC, or Cyclical Redundancy Check. It appears to be a "1" or "0" at the end of a binary message. There are zillions of these messages zipping throughout the air and ground that make up a digital thought or premise. The CRC asks a question. "Are you there?" It expects an answer. "I'm here and I understood perfectly your question. In fact, I am perfectly going to send that response back to you." If you perfectly agree that we are both in perfect agreement, let me know." This all happens within nanoseconds. If the data comes back flawed, the CRC rejects the message and resends the question until there is perfection. Too many CRC's are considered a problem. The problem needs to be eradicated, as the CRC's start clogging the transmission medium with rejected and resent questions and the real stuff, the important stuff, can't get through. Speed of access decreases exponentially.

So here I sit, sending out CRC's and the answers I get back are flawed. I'm told by the resender's CRC that my question was flawed. I'm reminded that the problem is at my end. I'm informed that I need to resolve the problem ASAP or penalties will ensue. If the 'other end' needs to fix the problem, and it is determined by them that it was my problem all along, there will be a fee. Today the attorney general resigned. I sent a message with a question, "is he going to be held accountable for his incompetence and the damage he did to our justice system and the amount of money it cost to weed out his obstructions?" The answer returned from 'the other end' (in this case the president) was that it was a shame his good name was so viciously dragged through the mud. That answer seemed a little flawed to me so I resent the question with a different coding, "Is there any way we can drag his good name through the penal system?" The bandwidth has obviously choked on the amount of CRC's slamming into each other and everything has come to a standstill. I am awaiting a retaliatory penalty in the snail mail box at the end of my driveway. It will require me to go fetch it in a primitive manner, without a minimum 3 year commitment to a subscription service and automatic deduction from my checking account, or a piece of plastic. Does that mean it is valid? How can I reject it? The last time I tossed a CRC at the postman, he said to leave him alone or he would call his supervisor. I tossed a CRC at the State Trooper who said my plates had expired. He went for his sidearm. I tossed a CRC at my insurance company for denying payment on a process they found to be deniable and they threatened me with cancellation. I tossed a CRC at the bank and they added an administrative fee.

Maybe we should remove these cyclical redundancy checks from our entire mental environment... no flawed questions, no flawed answers, no flawed information, thus no problems. Never mind, executive privilege has already set that standard and trickle-down is in effect. Kindly delete this message as flawed.

an official causticyak endorsement

The last three Democratic potential, possible, and probably not presidential candidate debates (I think it has been the last three as there are so many and I may have missed three or four) have been a difficult exercise in the art of spectator sporting. Who hits the home run or bunts or punts or fouls out seems to have a couple of consistencies built into overall equation--one, the sense that they all are more worried about not losing than winning... except for one. I believe the debates I'm referring to were the ones in front of the AFL-CIO in Chicago, George Stephanopoulos, and Mellisa Ethridge. The candidate in question is the one with least amount of political ground to lose, the one that looks like a wrinkled hobbit in search of his lost porridge pot and has a pierced-tongue 30 years younger extremely hot Brit babe for a wife (not that that has anything to do with anything unless you work for 'you decide' Fox News). The other consistency, each time Kucinich spoke, I swear Obama looked at him with a definitive admiring "shit, I wish I could say that" look on his face. Maybe I just wish he would want to say what Kucinich can afford to say. The political reality is no one wants to be tagged a left wing vegan loon from Cleveland and resemble Yoda on a good hair day. And so the potential for 'same as it ever was' continues to be lurking around the next post election blues corner. Basically, fear is one motherfucker of a deterrent for really speaking ones mind and people at the apex of the ascension process are more affected than others with less to lose. This is leading by example? Well, little Dennis has my vote until he doesn't and my guess is that point will be long before the Democratic convention as the corporate donations are most likely not raining down upon his head. Hopefully the nominee that comes out supposedly swinging will be carrying just one of Kucinich's bats with the balls or ovaries to swing it. It is a big stick... as his platform shows:

Creating a single-payer system of universal health care that provides full coverage for all Americans by passage of the United States National Health Insurance Act.
The immediate withdrawal of all U.S. forces from Iraq; replacing them with an international security force.
Guaranteed quality education for all; including free pre-kindergarten and college for all who want it.
Immediate withdrawal from the World Trade Organization (WTO) and North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA).
Repealing the USA PATRIOT Act.
Fostering a world of international cooperation.
Abolishing the death penalty.
Environmental renewal and clean energy.
Preventing the privatization of social security.
Providing full social security benefits at age 65.
Creating a cabinet-level "Department of Peace "
Ratifying the ABM Treaty and the Kyoto Protocol.
Introducing reforms to bring about instant-runoff voting.
Protecting a woman's right to choose while decreasing the number of abortions performed in the U.S.
Ending the war on drugs.
Legalizing same-sex marriage.
Creating a balance between workers and corporations.
Ending the H1B and L1 Visa Programs
Restoring rural communities and family farms.
Strengthening gun control.


PS... your taxes will be much higher, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. So the fuck what? Think about the socially significant bang you'll get for your buck.

what's in yer pocket?

when yer down in the dumps
from authoritative administered lumps
leaving swellings and contusions and bumps
and the weight and sting of the lash
deepens the ever widening gash
too many hairpin curves
speeds too fast
and yer about to crash
and somewhere in the frenzy you can't find yer stash

pull out yer personal pink penguin

when priorities usurp us
with collisions of purpose
and a cliff looks real appealing
cuz walls are never revealing
whats under the floor or above the ceiling
leaving you left with a dull sinking feeling

pull out yer personal pink penguin

if it seems years are to squander
lost like summer wages
and writings are on the wall
and the path is strewn with tattered pages
it seems reasonable to ponder
to head out yonder
and start something fonder
just don't forget to launder

yer personal pink penguin

(because you never know where it's been)

just plain mad about medieval...

There is an interesting science recently made available to curious creatures, ones who worry about millennium crossed genealogical accumulative worth, fringe walkers who stay awake until the wee hours pondering the role of ancestor-hood as a possible reason we are survivally built the way we are and act the way we do within the current reality we exist.... ones like me. Upon request and though probably with considerable out of pocket expenditure, DNA can be extracted from any individual wishing to confirm or reaffirm perceived suspected ancestral heritage, routed through devices of such technological magnitude that within nanoseconds, your beginning as a leaf sprouted from twig, from branch, from trunk can be plotted on a map of origin, printed, and offered for show and tell at cocktail parties.

There are risks. If you are puritanically pale and living with such minded people in the cul de sac of your choice, you may find that there is a significant genetic connection to black African Serengeti nomads that accidentally made their way to the Ivory Coast just in time to be captured as slaves bound for North Carolina. If you are black and feel that your roots must be stemmed from the south eastern coast of Africa and that you most likely are a descendant of the great Shaka Zulu himself, only to then find you have much more white DNA from Northern European stock, specifically originating around the late 1500's in Amsterdam when marketable prostitution demographically poised for seafaring folk headed to the Dutch Indies was at it's all time lucrative peak. Bummers abound all around in the most interesting of nooks and crannies.

I have often felt I must come from Northern European tribes, particularly the ones that later united enough to build long ships that took their bad pillaging selves around the northmost coastal regions of Scotland and finally resting in Ireland. Prior to those magnificent feats of conquest, I feel extremely connected to these peoples of Roman lore, Druids who hurled themselves out of Scandinavian and Scottish highland regions, red hair aflame upon pale white skin, tribally marred and scarred, men, women, and battle worthy child alike, naked and crazed, ferociously attacking Roman Legions compiled of horrified professional soldiers wishing to be civilly battling someone else somewhere else . Dispatches sent back to Caesar from remote Governors have been found to contain detailed accounts of such peoples carelessly throwing themselves to their deaths, thousands at a time to wear down the Roman advance, sometimes eating their opponents when weaponry failed, mounting the heads of their victims on spears to be ceremoniously lit around celebratory campfires. This is the warrior class from which I was spawned. I just know it.

The Viking sword, huge and non-ornate, adorned without jewels, nothing of artistic mastery worthy of hanging on mantels or fetching high prices on Ebay were built for one reason... mayhem. Even wielded by arms the diameter of most legs, the weight was such that a second blow was not feasible or warranted, the first one was sufficient; the parry, lunge, and thrust was a moot exsersion. To me, this is the epitome of ancient reactive response, one I have felt recently akin to as our little wine shop battles competitors wishing to feast upon our creativity for the purpose of our demise and their ascension, the State which for the sole reason of regulatory compliant expediency wishes to tax and punish us into oblivion, and a distribution cartel that wishes to engulf and devour us as a tributary of there own empire.

I cannot find my sword. If I did, I would not be allowed to lop off a head or arm of my choosing: the new wave legions aligned on all our flanks are masterfully equipped with suit clad soldiers, Blackberry and brief in hand, heavily funded from deep coffers poised to overrun weakened positions of the disjointed and soon to be plebes strewn about their path. I feel I am in the wrong time and in the wrong place. I dream of battle torn fields with the bodies of my slain enemies piled in heaps, a monumental display for any or all that would attempt to enter such an uninvited realm for reason other that a neighborly howdy-do. I'm actually thinking of a tattoo, a Viking sword piercing a heart on my battle arm, and a crest denoting a repulsing defiance on my shield arm. Being ambidextrous, I'm having a difficult time defining which is which right now. And anyway, all this is but a metaphor apropos in another life, I suppose... I would take the DNA test if not for the fear that my perceived noble past of warriordom is not quite as I expected, maybe devastatingly worse, like coming from stupidly wayward stock of migrant Ukrainian potato farmers waiting for the next rape and pillage via Goths or Mongols looking for a fun romp on their usual day off. Like a said... bummers abound.

So while pulling into our parking lot you happen to notice a sword wielding lunatic on the back of a V-Twin mount, chopping down hordes of wholesalers and bureaucrats and adjusters of insurance and accountants while pedestrians scream in horror and the sirens of civil order approach, feel free to stop in for a howdy-do. I may not be able to chat long, but it's the thought that counts.

one...

a diamond in the rough, a sleeve wielding poet in the buff, and it's all about the sale-- something too immediately surface for such one to grasp; too short lived to analytically ponder all the residual implications and thus not a profitable venture in terms of what resides on the credit sides of the balance sheet

this pursuit has been deemed being irresponsible for such one's actions and that must be why a universal health care reversal is an emphatic 'HELL NO' and fee less education a definite 'ARE YOU OUTTA YOU FUCKIN' MIND?' as what such evil will be wrought but a redefinition of what is profitably thought; so many running amok with idle time in hand would reverse the residual subscription process and worst yet, who would no longer be in charge of the band?

and thus the armed conscripted belong to: the extractors, the insurors, and the lenders be; so a good defense is a powerful offense and what is more offensive than to be offended by subscription over time, with interest, supposedly the only prescription

if such one gets bugged there is religion to relieve torment; so subversives beware, hold on to your hair; your thoughts are not your own as manipulative markets demand copyright and full frontal extortives demand license and accumulative air miles

without prey there can be no predators, without predators no sport, and without sport no six figure seconds could be charged for super bowls filled to the brim with delighted maniacal brew convinced sheep are herded elsewhere;how does such one know? was there anyone else that knew?

from nosebleed seats can such one see the frenzied ants toil but even that advantage point requires pay-per-view pockets and the accumulated data is subject to compilation, compacted into SPAM; a coagulation processed, a digital crunching zipped into a can, easy to chew, and priced accordingly and displayed at the local grocer--chain in full view

and if such one cannot dance to this rhythm there are pacifications, numbing agents for such one to suck on; a mammalian nourishment to fortify such one's weakened state as it's never to late to bring such one back into the fold, back into compliance, sanctioned with maximum margins and residual rights due and even Canadian pharma cannot offer relief for such one's deficiencies

with combative embattlements now defined, and with hammer and nail and abandoned steel rail and paint laden brush and ink filled pens drippings of fable and tale, such ones can alter states of the withered and stale and the drug of choice is without fee... far far beyond the grasp of the sale

the simplest of sins...

I found a book based on the early noodlings of Jack Kerouac and lo and behold on page 66 (same as the route he famously infamized as the intellectual hobo's way west) and midstream in his development as a spontaneous combustive writer, there was this play he wrote in 1941 called "There's Something About a Cigar". This is amazingly relevant as I have just finished an extremely nice Dominican Monte Cristo Robusto that I know was spawned from Cuban seed and hand rolled on virgin thighs, brought lovingly from a town of immense heritage concerning such pleasures by my lovely wife , and afforded by one Mary Lou Meader who is currently re-immersing herself in the midst of a cyclical redundancy.

So as I spend the day hacking at the stubbornly reluctant blackberry brambles that were shredding the skin about my ankles and as the noonday sun is blistering my balding pate, I am thinking of pre-World War II concerns of sin and the post-World War II ones that I now have now learned to include such names as Fidel Castro and Hugo Chavez and... Monte Cristo and Cohiba. I'm staring at this dilemma of the now and then via a stogie perched between my upper and lower teeth that used to be 5 cents everywhere and now cost 8 bucks in Chicago and 13 bucks in the great State of sinless Washington and a Cuban version that if caught in possession of, is severely punishable by confiscation, fine, and possible jail time. I do understand the politics of contraband and hey, what is Capitalism really good for if one can't smuggle something now and then? But really, is it all that necessary for the enjoyment of something lit, rolled about the mouth, and finally transformed into the epitome of the ashes to ashes--dust to dust thing? What did this poor object of the attention of so many former worldly contemplators (Mark Twain and Ben Franklin included) do to be ostracized in such a manner? What evil was spawned and what dots were connected to bring this formally living and breathing plant to such a despicable place in our collective consciousness? Why not the coffee bean instead?

In Kerouac's play, a "Young Fellow" buys a dollar's worth of cigars... 20 to be exact and distributes them among acquaintances met while relaxing at the local swimming hole and pondering why smoking a cigar is better than doing anything in the world. It is a simple one act play that has but one requirement... all observers in the theater, men and women, are to watch with lit cigar in hand. Today this play would be illegal if performed on US soil except within certain city blocks in Las Vegas.

Smoking a cigar is no longer something one does while contemplating ones navel. It has been transformed into a symbol of success and excess by partying prototypes, proponents of supposedly free market economic mechanics, conspicuous debt happy consumers who probably in most instances do not even like the taste of a cigar nor really have the time to enjoy one fully, usally an hour and a half in my world. The funny thing is, the best cigars on the planet come from a socialist country, one the paid proponents of "our" system has deemed worthy of decades long blockades and sanctions. Another funny thing... Capitalism and state sponsored Socialism have one thing in common... as economic systems, they both require the most amount of involuntary participants to be paid the least amount of money. They should be happy bedfellows, but somehow the cigar, this abomination used by one side and provided by the other, has caused a fissure, a world threatening spasm as too many people are obviously doing too well to allow either system to work at maximum efficiency. The cigar and it's projected usage is and must be now an icon of the evils associated with anarchy. Now I'm really okay with it. I say, free cigars for everyone.

Back to the blackberries....

wine and tarragon blues cont...

stand fast ye athletic cyber lesbian
saber swift against rogues bulgarian
cia bestowed
somewhat overly endowed
even j. edgar would find that contrarian

if you pilfer for a hobby
while holding down a sustainable jobby
within the ranks of the dog cadaver lobby
unsubcribes you with the hoity-toity
or even the somewhat snobby

so what do you think of swinging as a secondary choice?
and don't look at me in that tone of voice
the one you yet to have thought of or spoken
cuz it's obvious this conversation is minimally bent
if not broken...

things from france...

What nonsensical gibberish
that tarragon and wine brought forth,
notes of currant, pepper, leather,
and phlem from the uvula side north

the tributater, street potato, debonator three,
sat and slurped all the more
not a drop on the floor
never asking what this could all possibly be

and the tributater announced from this subterranean dream,
"I'm not a root-bound vegetable floating down this side stream"

and the street potato announced with neither hiccup nor stutter,
"you'll never see me lounging in the gutter"

but the debonator being the most explosive of Debbies
not to be confused with burnt Barbies or Teddys,
jumped up and announced the final decree,
"it's with Dr Steve that I'll have to agree,
impale their asses on the longest of stick--
that'll teach em not to flick their particular bic"

and on that ending note we all decided
it's not that great to stand divided
it's much much better to go to dinner
when invited.

nuero-singed...

a synapse misfires
and synchronicities unravel
fog blanketed
cluttered paths
insurmountable walls
and the judge slams down the gavel

and time burns down
as one bright burns dim
and a portal cannot be found
and chances for escape seem unreasonably slim

mountains unlikely scaled
buildings partially assembled
one hangs self-impaled
each task a final stand
past attempts cumulatively resembled

a cyclical redundancy supreme
impervious to any drug-numbed dream
within this particular space
no one can hear one scream...

Post 'Sicko' Meanderings...

I've been thinking of the next era of enlightenment, which means I've also been thinking of the last one. I wonder if I'll live to notice it or if I'll even be in the right place when it happens. Maybe it's already started and I just can't see or feel it yet; too much white noise cluttering up the road to Valhala I suppose. Swinging marginally left or marginally right on the political monkey bars every eight years doesn't qualify. Buying into the latest craze whether health or lifestyle oriented is not a subscription to the club of the consciously elevated. Supply-side economics, "my fridge is stuffed, how about yours?" is not that fulfilling as it's been made out to be. Then there is technology and I still think about the paperless society and the afforded leisure time it was to bring, and though Wired Magazine probably thinks differently, I think the techno-revolution has brought forth many a false profit.

The micro-enlightenment spawned after the carnage of the last world war; that was a good one. Minds conscripted or volunteered to the most deadly and destructive global event yet invented, and out of it came dribblings the likes of Vonnegut, Irving, Ginsberg, Kerouac, and many begets fell into place from literature to art to music. But then corporations figured out how to make money with the new and improved hip, and then the drugs got too numbing and addictive and the worst one, television, came along and really fucked it all up. The momentum was killed by a phosphorous packed pacifier stuffed into the mouth of a new collective teetering on a potentially massive consciousness shift and suddenly Wall Street and Madison Avenue snuffed that puppy out. They had a new and improved tool. Then there was Reagan. So much for that cosmic spark.

I think when the most amount of people are trapped, locked into a cyclical redundancy so stifling that their very existence is only heightened by planning for when that golden parachute unfolds or chasing the carrot being dangled in front of their noses and if they finally figure out what a real crock and waste that all is, we might just get a cerebral jarring. Sadly, it will most likely start with the pocketbook. Oil prices at $120 a barrel would be pretty cataclysmic. The price of everything would sky rocket and wages and equity wouldn't be included. Of course, all hell would break out first; one step back, two steps forward? Climate meltdown? How all quite apocalyptic.

We went to see "Sicko" last night and I'm not feeling too much in the mode for promoting engulf and devour, not that I ever have. I've always wondered where we would be as a species if the basics: food, shelter, education, and healthcare were covered so we could all go about making the earth more habitable while evolution is hopefully taking us all up a step or two. Well, some of us. HR 676 is a start, yet I feel it doesn't go far enough, and I fear by the time it gets through the Senate it will be so butchered by politics as usual, it will be deemed ineffectual. Redefining the war on terrorism might help, but then we would be putting all of those defense contractors out of work. I suppose a good old fashion civil war would loosen some screws... messy though.

We might not be around for the next mind expansion, but maybe we could plant some seeds, hoe a few furrows, maybe make some brew. Do we really need to provide an economic climate where a few people have the potential to attain mega wealth status at the expense of so many? Isn't there a wiser and more reasonable promotion for cult ascension than worshipping the rich and famous? How about the socially-conscious and famous? Is that really that boring? Probably.

Belonging to and supporting Moveon.org gives credence to collective leverage, and that seems to be what the game is all about... leverage. But if you really want to start something, really dig beneath the layers of goo spread daily by those with more goo than not, say it in your art... uncompromisingly. Toss a little shock and awe at the generic, the homogeneous. Break a mold, smash a screen or tear a blind, awaken the dead... they think they are alive, but they aren't. I bet they want to be. Adbusters is a good place to get some ideas. Just a thought.