Kubrick WFH today

Looking back from the toaster today, I realized WFH means all work life and associated stress, drama, etc. takes place in a tabletop square not even a quarter of an inch thick.

We work in a black window now instead of pretty glass.

July 4 by 4

Even the 4th of July seems less right... arbitrary.  Out of place in time maybe, do you think? Friday parades... wha? It's like tomorrow we won't know how Thanksgiving got here. And when was Easter?

My yard for instance, looks like late summerfall, dead leaves scattered all over from intense heat and bludgeoning angry electrical storms. I mow stuff but it sure ain't grass. All bugs are just variants of beetles, blimpsized to Goth fingernail floorboard. Birds sound songs but are not seen.

Time as we knew it is ebbing. Falling away.

It seems filled with cotton that drifts the day to day, a scarecrow where once navigated proud Captain under sail. It is no longer a constant.

And they know it. Leaking back into itself like some Fukushima hushed up toxic crime where the plunderers take every dime and Godzilla gets the second coming instead.

Everything is deadlive. Zombie Genesis. Progress, the lie, is now revealed. This is why the Light must dwell within you now more than ever before.

You must make it yours, upon this Independence Day-time dawn.

God hits snooze alot but he'll dart up, my Paul Reveres. Event approaches. Or into it we fall, I'm still not sure which.


When I drive by billboards of cows telling humans to eat other animals like a fourth grader at spelling, and when I see the Hardee's ad on TV for Chickens liking the dead cooked breasts of other chickens, I stop and think... that's the difference.

I don't think ancient man said "Yeah! Take that corn - eat some corn, corn!" And I seriously doubt they pretended fish told them to eat more beans by making them into puppets, either.

We're doomed folks.

Look Out Lawn

My god,
I must be drunk on dread.
The apparition of anticipation
has me so soused
bumping walls within the house
for tomorrow's circled number
be actual day.

So lawn,
here I come to mow.

Laurel & Hearty

Pre-sliced bagels: don't believe 'em.

It's really a factory "starter cut" for one - where steaknife serration is mandatory intervention to the hole. And then it's always ¾ + ¼ never ½ + ½ anyway.

Always jamming Laurel & Hearty into the toaster next to each other side by side and fattie won't popup on his own when done until you force him. Mmmmm. Just what I wanted - the thickest bread in the house half toasted with a well done crisp cracker slathered in cream cheese. Yum.

Hey Neighbor

Know what law I REALLY want?

More than state by state our twin pants kneeling in a church, or licensed by the state for worse, so house insured we BOTH pay through the roof somehow more a gayer taxpaid spouse?

Yeah. In honor of the date I say it loud. I want the 420 done for everyone. That's it. No more prison companies and drones. No more profiling the community for bucks.

The Law that lets update sustainable & green for sugar in the filling of a bowl and having some cake later too.

The legal approval in "Hello there, neighbor I seem to be out...but I did bring over my bowl if you wouldn't mind?"

Atom & Ever

"I don't get it." That's one copout... the other is some variant of "too deep." Not right now and of course, not my thing are the others. Deep is funny, because it means maybe flood comes and washes you anyway so, why bother? Same thin as all those metaphors lose me. Each depict a drowning.

All meh on this gorgeousness come up the same when prodding people to watch it.

Art this moving, so tearfully timeless, and which purposely carries pauses more intimate than the sensual audiovisual envelope in which the stories are dancing into your Mind.

Airport for astral, and in those  spaces, angels drive on through. Whatever your pause of choice is in the consumer clock entertainment pass at the time of revelation may be, the decision to shelf 'Now you' contemplating the inevitable 'Then you' once manifest as End is the only way to obtaining providence in Paradise itself.

No other ways or means will get you there. Looking for God always is the tractor beam home. Destination after Death should be the term.  Not life. And there is only one. The other is simply lack of that, or, the Fall.

Atom and Ever.
Empty vastness.
And charges pole to pole a field.

Ulysses: Odyssey of Seasons in Two Days

Okay ... lost power for a minute but came flickering back. Ulysses, eh? Well riverrun!

Out on the porch now witnessing a very strange, almost alien rice crispies quiet hiss for the frozen rain embedded in the snow, which is keeping tenor with the fiery red cardinals chirping and darting about. They seem fine but I whisper to them anyway... pretties, do not land a butterfly cartoon on piano your darling little legs... please no perching!

This is no Disney though. My heart is in total panic. And now the sirens go! There is terror in the distance yet so Monty Python close as well. The riflebast shots I hear, they are not guns, these are the tired old and weighed trees, and I cannot dart about my head the door fast enough to find the source of grassy knoll each time before it stops.

Terror in the wood!

Caca! Cac...cccrack!! Dammit all! Every sound amplified all wrong as if to mess with you. Crackety not yet fall CRACK followed by splintery echo ricochet, again and silence... and repeat over there... my God, right there... No thud no THUD! Surely distant but overhead close, the dread of yet to finish such heavy fall. There! A puff of smoke it seems out there!

Clouds of snow appear behind the line of infantry in evergreen. As if invisble the alien Predator moves all scifi close ghost toward my door. The branches far away for clouds disturb the fall on on other trees but you cannot see the weighted deadlog gray propped on high so dangerously whose whiskers these wispy bristles to.

Damn Damacles, my sweet Pecan hold tight! And pa-POW k-k... stIll holding heavy the glazed limbs, I can sense without seeing the hanging by a splinter of pithy jagged thread. Fall. FALL!

Where are you? Where ARE you? Hyperventilation is a potwatch boiled, and rattle is my heart. Better finish cigarette and not look out to snow. Pretend inside couches and living rooms with pups a blankey just stop at ceilings and no olympic athelete finish line posing southern tree directly overhead.

Of course Penny now hears them falling closer. May the degrees of sixty Saturday get here soon.

 Is that... the sun?
Oh to land the Ark!
Forty days it seemed
and now to disembark
the beastiepups out back
on Christmas Swamp!

 Friday, Iditarod the dogs in ice and snow, and the roving terror of the winter precipitation gang on lilted trees who only waited for spring.

The pups and I ashudder, papa far away. How we shivered undercover in the grip of raging winter storm. But that was so long ago... Friday, did I say? Perhaps I have a yellowing remberance of a photo from then... a souvenir of the terrible Ulysses, now let me see.

Meanwhile...today, oh Saturday - a whole new era we call week-END begins!

Edelweiss! Dafodill!

Oh, the lives are a hill with the music of sound! It is as if baked Alaska, the sweet angels play upon their HAARP for us all, and tall towers cellular just behind whispering trees beam dreams of prosperous days to each one all a happy citizen.

Conforming for a Dollar is a Sealtrick for a Fish

Never in my work history have I been so exposed to the Truman Show get out of town blockage ad these three months since in trying to find a new cubicle in which to grind away the hours. In fact more rejection on the job front from Narnia here in town today - nice rejections and split decision and save me for later - but nonetheless rejection again in the FTE market.

I've been out of work since the end of December last year when they let us all go at my last assignment. Of course, the painful Search was on and has been relentless. Three FTE interviews, numerous calls, beautiful promises, very close calls. Endless agency calls ad placements and submittals. The machinery is moving.  It has been more grueling than ever. Oh I'm angry yeah. Of course I want to cry and give up. How I press on for the dollar soon to go.

And you know what? I think I am realizing why. I'm not blind to it. This, my second Coventry. Banishment is solitary for those without the crime.

I get the same response all the time; that they LOVE terrific me, and MEAN that too, no they do -- that I was perfect for what they wanted, the path I've forged is so impressive, and samples I bring to illustrate creative problem solving and motivating leadership are just what they are looking for - however someone else was... just a BETTER FIT.

So I get it. Not about personality and track history. About FIT. Well, gym and I do not get along. To maintain or find a job you have be a good liar/pretender/cog and BY NO MEANS can you be sincere/transparent/unique.

I'll admit it, I am quite the stand-out loudmouth but NEVER in any way to be a total ass like that lady you worked for who was downright EVIL to you - and and we've all had micromanaging our hour asses to the clock our psychological; strength ability to not pummel and/or projection vomit onto what she called an outfit.

I always stick to my principles because that's who I am - it's not an act. However, it's very clear that I don't fit it and in fact, never have being the boy in bubble scientist glasses since age 3. I paid dearly for that in daily pummeling I assure you, and somehow still found a (quite interesting) way out of that dark valley of violence, hate and gloom into the light of love of Self and of my own soul, and in forgiveness my fellows too.

I am ALIVE with creative and fiery passions; everything is INTERESTING and LIFE itself so beautiful that I shall NEVER TAKE FOR GRANTED having fed my dying mother food with a spoon and switched out the too-full bowel buckets Home Depot that laid aside the chair and tortured dignity and mocked my father's dying days while he sat strapped in to to a breathing wingback in the lonely house he gave us all just to fade away ashamed.

I have that wingback in my bedroom today. And it is aptly named. Not one day do I forget how ugly this place it and what it does to angels in boot camp.
Calling like it is will heal this sick planet for once and all before it is too late. It'll stop wars. Simple really. If everyone looked within we'd stop hating all those out there. This is fact. All the games and policy of repression means out come the rage projection. As above, so below so everyone please knock it off and turn off the show.

Now, I write  -- and I do so in catharsis yes but also hopes if you read you will pick something up in it that makes you change one day. Yes I said you. And change, but nothing really huge. I'm only asking for a day. Even less. One occasion on one day maybe, where you find a way to stop lying to yourself about all the bullshit and look it RIGHT in the eye and CALL IT FOR WHAT IT IS rather that saying "why thank for, sir, for all that delicious chocolate cake piled so high down there  - I just can't wait and dig on in."

I am a blazing unwanted star to a DEADLPLANET WORLD who thinks badly lit is shining, who thinks that work we must do when here is NOT for some tall box of seats corporate to the sky but for building a temple foundation within your heart before you go. It is all we have. The stuff we bring when leaving. And I'm not goody two shoes about this. I am not lecturing you. I don't have the right to. I do it for my own reasons and it pisses off the world and now the cosmos is telling me - taunting me like in Gethsemane - "well boy all you gots to do is CONFORM."

"It will all fall in to place so effortlessly from there. "

Will thank you no thank you he who hides in desert breath, JUST LOOK AT WHAT IT GOT YOU. I don't think I like where this date is leading to. And I don't believe you that we are out of gas Take me home.I really mean it now.

My Lord My Love

When your beacon strikes dark walls,

and radar sharp your repel...

insist on spilled Light.

Antony. Dancers from another realm.

And blurry Tuesday between spring bookends.

The Writings on the Wall

I've always been a writer. On what though, through the years has changed. Has evolved cybernetically. Once was a time the key ENTER was RETURN. And before that you didn't hit keys, keys struck wet black ribbons on platen roll like stonecutters stamping eulogies on markers monumental and marble.

RETURN was a swoosh, a beautiful silver lever you swiped aside with every line that came out but had to end for no more rubber log was there, and return you did with total flare and rhythm to the Muse played on, return once again in ritual the beginning of the rolling log on spit spinning, weaving, in this gorgeous tapered MACHINE, you slapped that lever back with a Vegas slot machine surety that all sevens would line up soon.

On a roll so to speak.

USB Typewriter kits! Click the pic.
Digital I/O will never replace such wizardly apparatus, but my fuzzy floppy cone hat won't change no matter the Harry Potter twink bullied in Magic School they try and sell. A cap of thinking that still has upon it a big star of gold no matter what they give me in the lab to bubble up potions based on their yellowing posters of periodically tabled words.

The typewriter is well loved. Start here.

Suns: What Goes Up Must Come Down

Although the Christmas lights out front have been OFF they have still been THERE, annoyingly, but not any more. Spent an actually pleasant Sunday afternoon high atop the ladder (once I got there) untangling them from the Ichabod trees. And then I coiled up all the highways of electricity I so ingeniously laid down.

Every once in a while, just a few feet off the ground out there on 601, you are literally in your own world. It was fun to stare through tiny bulbs into the sun, solar rays illuminating the red plastic covers from the OUTSIDE into Rubies of protest, in one last ditch effort it seemed they tried bring light to that which is barren, gnarly, forgotten and sort of surreal. Footsteps trod guilty across the mummified remains of last season.

Candy cane colors back in hiding. Electrics away. The dried browngray leaves and limbs lie like bones now in wait of the Green Man, whose light comes neither from within nor down upon, but bursts THROUGH thicket, around thorn, to greet some spring day sun yet unknown despite some gopher of a shadow or whatever tophats say happen.

He is neither green nor a man. He does however need the wood, at least for sake of a gathering of trees not so Edenly placed. A metaphor. As above so below, and thus a forest is the five limbed, five sensed Microcosm of all that awakens on a Grand scale, staring back through winter right at you, eyebrows as pompadoured and beard as wild as daguerreotyped Russian philosophers, but made only of bark.

And to think, I could have watched the Game on TV.