Machinations

Lost Keys

Just after twilight of the 27th, or however that past Tuesday was, I was stopped while walking the dog, a limitless Shih Tzu with grey spots, and held at gun point by a small brat no older than perhaps twenty. Unscathed, unharmed, the little bastard made off with my keys. I am offering a reward of one white ford explorer,2001 model for the keys along with the capture and humiliation of said thief. Wallet and phone would also be appreciated, but I'll settle for the keys.

The porches

I get nostalgic on em. The idea, one liberating in times soar and stressful, is the old man, the tireless, but still, stoic strong old bones, a man just setting on an on wood plank landing, night sky up before and the soft far away rickshaw sound of a million cicadas dancing phonicly off else. And when it comes to thinking of preparing a family, making life and preserving something, it's this image of a well made deck and a stool, warm smoke of tobacco, pot, or mesquite or something, hints of clove in the air, hot coffee and cinnamon, cold drowsy moons, the stench of living terra of a summer night, all these as rewards for a life. Especially most fragrant in this capitalist ramshackle, when it's so much balls and anger and meat. You tirelessly wage a war with and against money. There is no reward. None but for preacher, for death. But I'll be home there. A strong porch against heavy weather. So much, I'll sit while sheets of rain and hail blanket the steps and be protected by the rain.

Brenham weekend

Spent a beautiful weekend outside Brenham nestled in high oak trees next to a small pond relaxing from the grind, the grind sending me off with soar neck and back what from computer face and stress made and the whole thing seemed cut off too short and I remember how I miss the slow pace of country life and the stillness of nature, cacophony of cicada cricket and frog croaking. The whole time a beautiful scene and we sat on the second story porch in the late afternoon drinking cold beers and smoking cigarettes, once in awhile catching a doe carefully stepping from the thicket to feast on the soft green turf. Such a contrast with home here in the city.

Went out to Terlingua last week for the annual national or international chili cookoff. There's pictures arond here somewhere, but not really of the cookoff. I think that was the least impressive thing out there. I've been before but it remains my mecca in texas. It's one of the multitude spots parked on this earth that offer too much vision so that one feels small, unimportant and able to cross valleys with a single stride. Like the parts of Greece that inspired the Titans, a view so vast that we had to invest gargantuan heroes and demons to tower over it, to keep the land from being able entirely to swallow us up. It's a place I could never stay all my life but would happily die there.
Coming back to the city from this simple desert, this immense gaping wound of rock, dirt and emptiness makes me feel like I can't really see anything around me, I go on moving in my day but the whole expance of city moving around me is as blind as I, moving like the ant heap and asleep to the world which at certain moments, perhaps in the Chihuahua or somewhere else, you get an impression of life from the standpoint of geographic time, of planets, weather, people coming and going and making no impression upon anything so far as the earth is concerned. And if the earth rots and belly aches and swallows us to our doom, it won't notice and from some point of view up high on jacob's ladder this says everything about the importance of human life here on earth. There are bigger things going on. For me, I quit watching the news, forsaking it to rely upon my intuition that whatever struggle and strife going on here is immutable, impassable, and fleeting just as death itself is imminent. If there is a god in heaven, it is minding the passage of stars, not waiting to help people out of traffic, or out of a bad relationship, or out of Baghdad. The Titans are in the cliff face and not in our churches and offices, not even in us. We're far too asleep to have anything immense as divinity within us.
In closing, I didn't eat much chili, but the weekend had it's own immense pleasures outside of dining...that's all.

A partition for the sponsors.

I have noticed that the ads on my space are primary adverts for alcohol abuse. I wish to fix this matter. I wish to create a single blog which will influence the advertisements forever associated with my blogger blogging page thing.
So, how to start.
How to write? How to write it well?....
Lets begin with travel. Travelling. Ancient Greece. The home of the fathers of gods. Metabolism of religion. Torah. Kaballah. Koran. The Kyballion, the ritual of Abremelin and the Rubaiyat of Omar Kyahham.
Let's find a place somewhere in the melting pot of immigrant new york harbor circa 250 A.D. when the gospels were just barely being written. Let's speak of Iessua, of the Heptaparaparsinok, of bermuda triangle and radioshack.
The the histories reveal that Ishmaeel was in love with repunzel, that half priced books lie! That time cannot be concealed by Fossil. If you want to lose weight, walk the Appalacian Path into Turkestan, over the untrodden bare bones of sephiroth and mnemosine's children. Let beauty decide for herself the fate of the living soul. Our metropolis is destined for comic failure. Our truth is destined for fossilization. We walk a whicker steppe up over styx and feminine hygiene. We uncover not only herpes, vagina, Hybrids, motorcycles, tom waits and the vaselines, we also uncover the next horizon which leads us into an unexcorcised right to being. Religion fails where mysticism couldn't catch our eye. Mysticism failed where modern culture already had its tentacles wrapped around the pinneal and petuitary. Jung and Alan Parsons and Job all flung into the primordial bitches brew, cooked up, administered, flung across the cafeteria, swept up and congealed in a kiln for the poverty stricken. Heroine and Elmer's glue. The palpitating nintendo brain of the universe swallowing from each starstuck and swarming brain, swallowing the epicyclic existance outside itself, lost in the esoteric egoistic singularity. Without its predeccesor, without the cosmos, the centers, the millions of centers, are merely food for termites and bedbugs and hollow, megalomaniacal intelligencia.
(.... Cajun Recipes .....,sorry)
We have to feed ourselves on brilliance. We have to seek out light, truth, brilliance. We have to be really lost. I say really because we become lost and independant as a means to becoming slaves. But, to be really lost means to also be really informed and strong, honest, brutal, human and humanly lost. Only from that desert can we find the smell of lost pneuma, of wisdom, not mere science and data and the assumptions of post simian knaves.
So when the computer comes to analyse my blog and find an advertisement to match...
I want it to be an advertisement for a cartoon....entitled:

Gandhi and Arjuna Visit the Moon People.

Assaya est?

After a week or so...as summer reaches climax and my mercurial transmutations take to their apogee and begin to flutter, and also as I attempt to steal back my life and death from fate's futilistic despotism. i'm setting my creative endeavors lower than normal and beginning to concentrate, for the moment, on the more simplistic, the less subtle, the less...eloquent works which I had set my headstrong heartn nerves against previously. It's impossible for me not to have more than two or three projects at a time, whether with art, books im reading, interests Im parting with rod and intentions in personnal forgings and deforestings. I've been up against a heap pile because the machines have been water logged.
i t has occured to me again, like running themes or like running waters, that environment plays a though subtle nonetheless instrumental, immense part cacophony of affibility in and among the body and mind and heart strings and creative movement and montage in a humans "business". ( for definition of Business, see Ludacris (rapper)). Moving into a place similar to that of my birth, though from local opinion, far better, I have decidied that all such brilliant peoples and chinese mediciners as the essenes, gurdjieff, reich, and anthony bourdain, they are all right! the body is connected to the heart bone! The heart bone Is connected to the head bone! The head bone IS connected to the world bone!!! The world bone May be connected to the God bone!!!
( respects to kerouac for that one.)
But nonetheless, I realize that my body is going through a frustration right now. My mind is going through a stagnant pool and my heart is a frustration making a migration on a merry-go-round. We're in the land of the doldrums. But, not defeated.
But Wait.
All is not for...not....
There is a light on the horizon. There is a shining blanket edging up over the steel girders on the horizon of mirth and bane. The is a small inscription writ over the ladder of the masons deluge laying. (That they can lay a 'deluge' has been the blind eye of historians for eons and aeons). The inscription above a cafe in Blanco, over a church window in Daalas (Baalas), and beneath the thin waters of pecos near a Ginkgo tree reads:
The spirit of man
Is the Candle of the Lord.

The inscription is brazens on the throttle of the mind.
The words are carved out in bone with flint stones.
The words say....what do the words say?
Is this biblical? I haven't looked to see. I don't want to know if or if not. Can they be read without the religious aspect of lord and candle and spirit? Can we know the understanding of this short apperition of prose? Can we know what is meant of us, and does the meaning of this axiom invoke the remembrance of some lost sense of responcibilty? Perhaps a "human" responcibity?
Perhaps a long lost carnate resolve of soul and mnemonic body divined this script from some divine, immortal tome now lost except among the astral cliffs inside the halls of Amenti. Perhaps I drove past a stone work displaying one of the last revolutionary whispers secreting through the time of a geologic eternity from whence came man and from which was lost the myriad brave forms from which we have illustrated over millennia the picture, portrature and caricature of our gods.
The phrase, once seen from a stop light on a weekend afternoon has since been a footnote to many a pages of my life. A breath of hope when the air begins to always seem thin and unctious.
Perhaps from that I can bring back a remembrance of the living hope and childlike earnestness and truth of my youth and see past the decades of madness and myopic entropic fecklessness.
Like a lamb at the bible bairing a cancerous bit of toothrot. Pidgeonholed. A piece of meteorolgic waste, or cosmologic weight, pushed , moved, sorted. The words come out of a timeless religion lost in the mind only. Up there (in the mind only) where we try to sort it out, apart from heart stem, apart from bread worms. Where the body is an instrument, like a ladel or a whisk, and it performs its function which right now is outlasting this sweltering heatstorm, and this despotism of scenery and deprecation of soul and soundness.
The light moves here and there. Catch it when it's most hungry. Sometimes it opens up roads we never saw, where now we see walls....

bad juju

The true travellor follows lee lines. i don't know how lee is spelled. Britishly I would imagine. America is void of elloquence.
Alcohol kills. Alcohol is the antithesis of orgonic lifemanifesting subtle ki(s), the building blocks, thee wood-glue pasting. Hmmn? Nevermind. Szezleky (sic- auth. of gosp. truth, auth. of cosmological garden) write that alcolhol destroys the subtle energies. Everything we destroy in food by cooking, heating, boiling, acidizing, brazing, grilling,(killing?), and carmelizing we destroy in the body by the use of alcohol. Not just braincells, he yyells, but your whole damned living christian bone blood and fleshy systems! And I say, fine. Fuck. I know im killing the chritmas jizm, but it gets me pumped for a minute. Lay down some screws, talk to the face and the hands, the trial and law guards. I'm gonna get juiced, and in the process forget and remember, like left turn and right turn, and get myself to the other end of an hour.
I've triangulated my home. I wish to push the boundaries continuously until I have trotted the globe and am calling it "my world". I've triangulated my position by moving far away then back closer, more south now than I started. But, smoking pall mall's on the porch I feel that the trees have it in for me. They hover and loom over, netting and screeching at me. Cicada cries and mute stares from above,. Its so hot I see the trees sweating, beads of glass falling and disappearing in air. The reality of this city slowly sets in. Still, I open the door of the house, still I drive down the highway and have a moment that I remember where I am. i wan't here awhile ago. I am here now. But, why am I here? i ask this like a bad joke on a disney kids show, I ask this like a walk on part in a game show, a talk show, late night, no art.
I don't know how it happened, but its happening now. I'm looking at pictures on the earth from distant places. I google mapped france yesterday and zoomed into treet view and began strolling the streets near clichy and then somewhere near a pizza parlor. I went to Avon but couldn't zoom in that close, so I looked at rooftops. I turn twenty eight tomorrow and my skeptics horoscope says: get going off somewhere now, man, get a brass knuckle and a neon visor and tromp the stoney terra. You're just gonna end up fraud, stoic, possessed here. The terre mega tropolis will swallow your bones? Go eat fine cheese. Go sleep with women too beautiful, go swim in the leftovers of triumphant and lost civilisations, culdesacs of misnomers. Eat Greek, swim channels, go to cooler climates. For god's sake! You had to leave, but why step back? You are poor. You are poor and tired of ramshackle habitats for embittered humanities. The thrut leaves without provovcations. Sweltering heat doesn't count. Startling beauties is what thy senses seek. Strange allegorical libations, constitutionals and not constitutions!
Ahh, but alcohol. I turn twenty eight tomorrow and I'm getting drunk now. Not yet, not drunk. Listless. Alcohol kills. teresa kills. heat stroke kills. christianity kills. silence kills. I gues none of thats none so bad. I don't feel any fire. either the heat snuffed them all out...or the utter lack of divinity in this new home, new town, new new. Just buckets of shit everywhere.

fearless in the lobby, but pissed

Radio tower stands out, looking pasty on a black lump under editor skies. A footloose band of lights trail silent acros beach side road ways into the looming ominous glow of distant magalopolitan chatilions, reststop neon trollop cries from vulture skies over dying diner respirations on highways of gourged furried flatliner, green dusk cacti sparkling in a moony day dream.
Waking up on the even of my twenty eighth a long way from strange, sitting on a fence with stiff shoulders, feeling in the dark for portsmouth. The listless wonder in and out of here, delirium has set in across the noon city like laudanum and fecal trench breathing, burgeoning on the faculty of transit and sidewalk and sorority of traveling socks, feet sweat, toungue dry and pooping phlemn, getting drunk on the moon during the daytime, getting drunk without her at night...
     There's not a place to work, to write, to paint, to think. All is shut up and out, like pictures in museums, usable things!!! behind glass cases...And a were-wolf kind of feeling, holding back or falling out, cussing the heat, the day. Zapped, desapped by humidity and smog, by pollutant airplane burggle in the sky, traffic gas lighting in the skull. A Burlesk of poison and discomfort and blinders and mutestones, bedbugs, allergies and razor burn. With a side of screwdriver. For my birthday, a bottle of Vodka. Better than jail.

Theres a strange promise. It goes about....n the day...its a place, its a thing.
citadel.
you talk too much.
We learn from each other.
You learn too much.
Grow alittle.

There' nothing around here except you, except me.
When I get to searching, then, only then, I'm lost.
I get spun.

When there are targets and proliteraian.
when the iron talks to the pot, I know,
I'll say, I'll get it, but
you're a stranger, a rascal,
get lonely and tied.

I live like a falcon circling a well.
I drink nothing but you, Im done with you.
Im in love with you.
I wish myself and head him in that direction.
gone, good, goodbye.
Gone, getless, gadfried, guttermouthed and dead.

the past sits like falcons on a saturday morning tead in
metronom and belfast, no home.
Get and get goin,
we're sending you home.

The strangle holds fast

Ahh, the irish coffee saturday morning post. Wake up in time to miss the farmers market, which lends me an entire weekend off from work in Blanco, the drive between Blanco and Austin, The hot days outside for nine hours, and the sting in my heart from knowing that I'm passing off supermarket foods under the false pretence that its farm raised. (And i am supposed to lie to these fine country folk! Which is like lying to disabled or the mentally retarded! I feel so foul.)
making barely any scratch and paying for gas to get out to crotch-ass town and stand on a highway. But, it's something and it puts a few dollars in my pocket. But there's a metaphysical symbolic reality that always coincides with the actual one. In the actual one I am broke by the highway selling another mans goods undeer false pretences and spending my other night in the dark writing, reading, drinking and planning. Perhaps in my mythological existance I stand near a crossroad, a fork, and with old trunk or carpet bag await the next train out to some megacropolis where I'll be lead into a circle and be given compass' and shards of glass lens, watercolours and secret tomes. Probably not.
i do feel I'm more at a depot, with a 3-hour wait before the bus takes off again. I don't know if it's an Austin transit bus or renegade tug sneaking out of harbor, but nonetheless- feel I'm waiting, passing time before the train leaves. Who's driving this thing? It's always like this. Everywhere is a wait. Or maybe I'm actually correct. More than likely though, everywhere feels like you're only waiting until you get to a moment when you actually know that you're living....I'm here. Take attendance. Wash my bones, it's hot as hell and I need a good cleaning. Really it's been cheap casual sex, warm beer, broke ass on couch, inspired by Miller, inspired by music, swamp ass in the city since I got here.

tired and ready nighttime daydream rehabilitation hospital

While we are all still here...
The Lamberts are having dinner.
The fascists brigade i proletariatizing across the street.
I, no, not I.
It is making a mes in the back shlades of a summit made of tea tert totter.
Now I'm nothing,
I'm slowly writing a story about diabetics.
I'm writing a story about the forensic of dialogue.
When Wilt comes home, finally, we will know it was He!

Drum caffeter in the scylo barn.
Get ready, now.
We're all aching for a fuck all from the earth, the moon, god.

(the first attempt with multiple exposure, but has its own kind of appeal...)

Doorless

Or like nothing at all.
You can't compare in a place as big as itself
There's no actual doors in this world,
There are only partitions.
So, you dream for that very reason,
We have to have doors,
we have to mark everything in sight
we have to know upside down
From Left
From tomorrow
From Unbelievable.
We grow intelligent
We have marked everything enough now,
Now we can walk in a straight line
Even spheres have edges
When you're smart enough.
Ahh, safety!

First timers

first time settin up a blog. We'll see how she blows. -