Is it an embellishment to add a day of the week to the title¿ do i care? in my ‘driven’ rubric, i’ve uncovered the voice i’ve searched for in my writing, anonymity. it is much easier to use proper grammar and capitalize the beginning of a sentence when one cares not who is reading. For a time i used writing as augmented reality, ‘the conversation' I’d like to have had with my mother, and not. I veer from scathing and unreasoned rage as expression, for there is no percentage. Like my personal experience with psych0tropic drugs, my salvation has mostly been reason; for example the accumulation of objects has never been my forte: what to do with them once you've collected them? or power¿ At first it was reaction formation; if I identified with the bullies, maybe they wouldn’t pick on me, but I was too egotistical for the ’swarm’ mentality coming from a tribe of refined narcissists, I wanted distinction, more than what a pair of “crossed eyes” provided. For a time, it was enough that I was related to beautiful people, a long time.
However that ‘ego-thang’, Osho’s ghost that doesn’t want to die, didn’t want to share the fictional limelight that comes from having entree to the Beatles' ‘beautiful people,’ however vacuous and empty such promise was. About then in my existential timeline, maturation was giving way to doubt and the burden of ‘realizing one’s promise’ kicked into high gear. Life became a kaleidoscope of schedules, certificates and appointments whizzing by, commingling with the fictional accumulation of security which one adheres to as a child of Depression Era parents. Somewhere in the miasma a voice tried to echo the logic found in intangible treasures of human existence. Music was never an option for creative sustenance, no models to draw on, and a ruptured eardrum sort of added to the lopsided nature of my cycloptic-monocular vision, while a short-leg syndrome gimp at times makes me wonder if there is such a thing as ‘TV Series Karma’ for having made such ridicule of Walter Brennen’s hobbling? that's a question.
Yet for a chronicle to have teeth, it wants to be more than entertaining vignettes seeking approbation: like the fear and frustration of dying alone in a foreign nation surrounded by language and traditions that go in and out of focus, or the confusion of resisting the real disparity of transposing a ‘retired gringo’ wherewithal on an impoverished, ‘destination’ aspiring colony at an ancient crossroads containing the roots of a 2,ooo-6,ooo year old tree bearing the fortunes of a ‘wannabe famous’ suburb of a never-quite-known hipster-doofus foreign-owned post-Columbian, never gonna be as metropolis, cultural dumping ground too far from CDMX to claim anything but the birthplace of the most potent of Mexico’s revolutionary leadership.
Ya’ can’t make this shit up, I know I’ve tried. For example within this same blog is the carcass of a novel, “Pre-Extinction People”, I wrote during a typhoon season while stranded in Viet Nam by the pandemic of 2o2o. Now I am ensconced within a community I am regarded sincerely enough by its population to be hated by some and cared for by others; this at a time in my own human development to become mindful of how little I know about myself, much less how others experience my presence. The real fact is that I am close enough to my objectives to order a set of stone carving tools; a yard in which to carve, And garden; an upstairs studio where I now sit and write, (gibberish or not); and am closing in on the sourcing of a studio easel on which to puzzle over compositions which may have been living inside of me since I gave up painting because my well-intentioned father told me one 'young adult' day, “You’re not a painter, you’re a sculptor”. I wish he was alive to provide succor to my sister.
If not this season, than next I will again take a psych0trop with the intention of jarring my assumptions loose, in s way similar to what Daniel Odier advocates in his book “Tantric Quest”, amongst others. I am going to die: I’d like to face that event with aplomb Michelangelo possessed when he painted his empty hide being held up by St Peter. I know of no other way to find that sense within without asking questions, which for some reason some time back I abandoned in favor of ‘certainty’, - a condition that has mostly resulted in fatuous defense of erroneous thinking serving no practical end except _________ fill in the blank :
until L8r (help yourself to other creative vagaries below) ·
(˚ ㄥ _˚)
jts 12 September 2o25
http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com
http://JosephTStevens.blogspot.com
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
prohibited from AI sampling in any form
reprinted with permission; all rights reserved
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