Are we having fun yet ¿? my house grows slime i do not understand, but affects my toothpaste of coconut oil and turmeric in ways i can’t say are healthy or unhealthy. The weather impedes my daily cardiovascular bicycle rides that force me to consider my life when comes a time i teeter too much to peddle safely - especially in normally placid traffic patterns of the locals where now interlopers of foreign lands - the testosterone threatened, capital rich vagabonds of our species demonstrate their virility and worth with reckless abandon and bold access to the quiet alleys and loving byways of a very ancient coastal village where i live and which has provided me sanctuary from a major plague · yeah, i’m not confused, just old. What i suffer most, aside from my wrinkled butt cheeks is being thwarted in my lifelong ambition to love, and be loved in return, not that i’m not, just that i don’t see it now how i remembered it to be.
More to the point, is not having developed a vocabulary to describe the miracle of affection and love that i have found in my wanderings; the painfully delicate connections between one spirit and another that has provided me warmth through so many frigid and so many fetid nights that i’ve lost count. Now i wander looking for those i’ve lost track of that which showed me the spirit of warmth and remarkable gift of connection in a world full of strangers divided by nothing more than ego and wealth - mine, yours, ours, theirs · all of it. I can remember hitchhiking as a man-child and being engaged in profound conversations within minutes of having entered a stranger’s car; i can also remember being woken up and dropped off to discover the driver, my new friend, had stolen twenty bucks out of my naive sleeping pocket.
And still i write of: betrayal, loving embrace, ineffable but indelible memories of all those tiny components that add up to mystery within one life, but when multiplied by the billions of our planet constitute a species. My shame is not having created a rugged strategy for survival that does not include greed, jealousy or failure, but includes elation for the simple act of breathing on a planet being choked for profit and strangled by vanity - repulsions within my own heart, which has yet found no way to purge gently at my own expense without cost to all i encounter possessing the same. Each time i think i have curtailed some aspect of my baser nature using a pointed critique of another human, i find peering at me the Spiro T. Agnew’s and their benign conceit of innocence behind fake felicitations that fascist functionaries couch their false faith front with fictional foreswearing.
I am too tired to formulate more that is not fiction, that is for sure. .. Well into 171220, and still tired, though i did get a ride in. I have to question any manic aspect of this writing process for me. If i am not taking a pace which yields the soul soil for growth there is no point. Our corporate overlords and the Art Industrialists propagate the conceit that if you can produce consistently high quality content you’re “in.” I say to them if you cannot demonstrate a viable reason i should give a flying fuck about your opinion - you’re “out.” Yes, you might say i’m swimming upstream, pissing in the wind, blowing smoke up a ghost’s ass; we gotta start somewhere. Telephone’s are no longer ubiquitous, they are enforced. Why is that¿ For your convenience, or like the bell of some modern goat - a convenience for those who herd for a living to keep track of you?
People don’t even question the premise any longer. Some years back i remember Oliver Stone exhorting mankind to ditch their phones - easy enough for someone surrounded by PA’s, but more taxing if you are a solitary wanderer at the mercy of corporate criteria for conducting business of any kind. It’s the hoax of facilitating communication i take exception to - those i encounter are very rarely capable or willing to discourse on much more than what is current within their telephonic tribe. FB has more than demonstrated its conceit about picking who, and what you favor with it’s incestuous interest in “pushed content” and addiction to “click bait” to goose its bottom line and fill its data coffers using ideas and concepts you develop, all the while denuding your autonomy and undermining your individuation, e.g., why did FB add an additional layer of keystrokes for you to comment on something you share?
“The blizzard of the world has crossed the threshold and overturned the order of the soul.” - Leonard Cohen ·
jts 15/12/2020,16/12/2020,17/12/2020
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