130920 - Extinction Chronicles ·

13 September 2020 - Extinction Chronicles ·
(2 months prior to the Covid Pandemic outbreak)

One can almost reach out and touch the misery of our world - an entirely unnecessary misery because so much of our want and solutions to that depravation have been well described by authorities · So why now 20 years into the “white man’s millennium” are we facing extinction? We know that people are happy when they are fed, but we feed them poisoned food because it is profitable instead of promoting the happy preparation of food. The commercials we watch on media show opulent kitchens with happy couples surrounded by sumptuous foods, but the reality for most is a 7-11 with a 3 day-old hot dog and a spongy bun, and we buy it - ‘cause we’re hungry, not for the food, but the convenience; why is that¿ We witness on our newsfeeds happy romance and giggling couples, but turn to porn when our mates shame our sexual appetites; why is that? e yearn for connection and sangha (community) but surround ourselves with sycophants who nod agreement with our confusion; why is that?

I have ideas and think about my own selfish loneliness more than is healthy, not to deprive you of any happiness you have found, but to demonstrate compassion to the “little boy” who suffers still 65 years and 51 weeks into the question. “Suffers” is a strong word, who is trying to pay attention would be more accurate. Oddly enough i am little different than the confused 3 year-old surrounded by bigger siblings, and ignored by harried adults, except for the fact i love still and have faith in the power of something i’ve only glimpsed through the windows of my upbringing and sampled with the limbs of my sometimes aware being. I like it, i like love, i like the feeling of being seen and appreciated, and even better i enjoy the feeling of loving another - the miracle of touching another with my own ability to love.

Not the dominance depicted in so much modern lore - that painful romantic thrall we all suffer from its loss, but the happy face of a woman happy to be coupled with someone whom she can take care. It is our nature, i cannot count how many stories of women, i’d go to bat for faced with disrespect of men i knew naught of. Sitting here now, knowing how often i’d been “traded up for,” i feel kind of stupid - a lot stupid· but still willing. It’s all a mystery to me, and i like it like that. I realize this writing is as much about my passing unnoticed from the face of our planet; down to and including being prompted by an AI thug to include the apostrophe for the above 'it is' contraction -“its all a mystery to me.” How fucking goofy is that for an algorithm designed by techno-nazis who’ve adequately demonstrated their contempt for mankind in general, and human agency in particular to correct my grammar.

This morning, as our “surreptitious” eye-in-the-sky well knows, i communicated with the widow of a school-boy chum: when i say school-boy, i mean kindergarten, and i am now 65 turning 66, you do the math - it was more than awkward, for my friend has been dead less than 3 years, and we haven’t really known of each other, save a brief encounter where his younger sister was occupied serving at a dislocated meal in the house of my step-father’s mother nearly 40 year’s earlier. I learned then he was making 'scratch' refinishing furniture, a lucrative, but dangerous occupation that apparently led to his early demise.

It is sad, because Joe DiNatale was the kind of spirit one would want as friend in today’s cookie-cutter world. Then he was deemed “incorrigible” and entrusted to the stringent Military Academies popular at the time. As i sit and reflect on conversations leading up to this dubious strategy in front of my childhood home, i regret not possessing the strength or resources to say, “Joe, we will fight this together” - my cowardice, my shame · i am sorry Joe, i was only 9 but feel sorrow at your conviction. I am glad to learn from your widow that you enjoyed 30 years of happiness prior to your demise, but i gotta tell you, even in our last conversation in your mother’s garage about the success of your furniture refinishing business, i had grave reservations about the chemicals you employed to become rich - whether your lethal brain cancer correlates, we’ll never know, but i applaud you for running through the “consumer minefield” in search of happiness for you and yours - a loving friend from afar · in space and time.

(˚ ㄥ _˚)
jts 9/13/2020
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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120920 - Extinction Chronicles ·

I have a manuscript kicking around in some landfill on an early Brother word processor and its long dead amber screen. “Young and Certain” written on an ahead-of-its-time 3.5" floppy that wouldn't even be readable for any of today's technology. I began the story long before my college training informed me through the penetrating explication of “Tom Jones” by Professor Victor Comerchero at California State University @ Sacramento about bildungsroman, or picaresque forms. “Y&C” was, or is depending on one’s affinity for urban archeology, a loosely autobiographical account of a cross country trip during the early 1970s on my way from Southern California to NYC to seek my fame and fortune as a fine artist. At the time there were emerging alternatives to cross-country travel that were modeled on the cooperative tenor of the time. Through one of the “Free Presses” it was possible to contract with a group of strangers to collectively hire a van and share driving and expenses across country for a fraction of the cost for more traditional transportation.

At the time of its writing “Y&C” was strongly influenced by the Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy i happily participated in to resolve questions about my repeated _______fill in the blank, mostly concerns about a pattern of dysthemia, and poor relationship choices, but in many ways far more toxic than this essay has time for. The irony of its writing was the condescending voice of its narrator - a voice, i now understand to be aping my therapist at the time rather than an accurate accounting of being free, white and 21 during a time in my country’s history when "it" could have gone either way. My understanding later was that the president during that time was actually terrified of the youthful opposition which animated many of the bizarre events in that cross country journey on the “Grey Rabbit Express.”

Today, while i shelter-in-place in the same foreign nation which suffered egregious wrongs which that vivid voice of opposition attempted to rectify, i watched a documentary about Hunter S. Thompson who was trotted out by the media “dream machine” as the antidote to those heinous crimes - himself the victim of celebrity excess that ultimately muted his message and rendered his cannon to that of a drunken buffoon · too eerily similar to what i discovered about my own trajectory during therapy. That therapy and a university education was almost entirely financed by hiring out my “grey matter” for the design of weapons for “The Man - ” you can run, but you cannot hide. Even here today searching for language to explain these conflicting events in a useful way to anybody, i find the same sanctimonious condescension i employed to describe our heroic, but outmaneuvered hero of my early years.  

If i’ve learned anything in the intervening years it is to mistrust anyone claiming knowledge, and to value questions - especially questions about my own behavior. I am far more kind to myself; i am no longer as driven by the expectations of others and am highly suspect of what the clickbait technology of today feeds me about what i am supposedly interested in. I want peace, more than ever, and understand more certainly that until i feel it within, i will never discover it witout. I miss very much the provocative but largely illusionary notion of “freedom” trumpeted by HST, but find it today emanating mostly from disciplined monks amongst us. Even Charles Bukowski in his dazed trance state could feel such feeling strongly enough to recommend it as a signpost; “The free soul is rare, but know when you see it - basically because you feel good, very good, when you are near or with them.” - Charles Bukowski ·

I am beginning to believe all of those i meet are free - you who are reading this have waded through shit that was not of your making, and perhaps barely recognizable to your reading experience, yet you persist. Perseverance in the face of the unknown resembles freedom as i understand it. I am not pulling you along - you are motivating for your own reasons, hopefully reasons that resonate with what i am trying to understand from writing about it, but ultimately you have your own very personal reasons for exploring. I fear my loss of concentration when it come to fathoming the classics and so search for language that is brief, pertinent and accessible. You don’t need me to explain to you what is wrong in our world, or why the need for freedom is so important to our survival. However, i strongly believe you will benefit from someone, recognizing you to be a “free” human being - nicely done · thank you.

jts 12/09/2020  

http://stoanartst.bl

reprinted with permission - all rights reserved

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110920 - Extinction Chronicles ·

There is no magic bullet - we are our own ammunition · on one of the saddest days in my recent memory as i sat down to purge my bile using nothing but words, i discovered i’d miscounted and had no more whiskey to fuel my fury. What am i gonna do¿ run to the store and replenish my store of liquid courage? What you see is what you get, same as me. I have a fiction of moderation which gives me permission to continue my self-destructive habits which only layer over the pain i feel being alive, and to encourage new growth from a daily lessening of the harness and bit of self-recrimination: “A house divided against itself cannot long stand” - Abe Lincoln · the 1st republican, no small irony there. Today is my elder sister’s birthday, her disdain for me is deep and longstanding. One of my earliest memories is a blow to the top of my head by her on a garage patio which resulted in my biting through my tongue; but memories can be dicey, my mother insisting that particular injury never occurred.

Does it matter, any more than that of a day without more whiskey¿ or a day with more whiskey? I am turning 66 in one day less than a week from today - could i give a shit, please excuse the vernacular & not · I try not to, believing in the flow from unconscious mindful behavior more valuable to our species than the proscriptions of a society that would allow children to be kept in cages at the border and racial thugs using automobiles as lethal weapons in crowds of protesters with impunity. Our days are crazy, as crazy as my mother describing me in our last exchange as “obsequious.” How does one properly respond to affronts of character and nature, or more importantly how does one maintain a conviction about civility and cordiality when faced with cruelty and gratuitous arrogance?

That is part of the appeal for me with “substance,” the tongue oil that in ancient times was employed as a gauge to measure the sincerity of an applicant for public service: two interviews were held, one sober, one drunk so that those entrusted with civic responsibility could be vetted accurately, free of the oh-so-popular fake-as-fuck-persona we live with day in and day out. What troubles me most about this particular all together too personal account is how comfortable we’ve all become with lying. My mother lied to herself when she accused me publicly of “boot licking,” while i lie to myself that there is no truth in her observation. More to the point is denying the pain i feel being disrespected so by the one figure, my mother, or in sexist literature, “the mother”, which i hear trumpeted all around with honor and revered for her loving, nurturing ways - how am i to reconcile such contrasting experiences · ?

To begin with, my anima has not been tamed, so the weight of respect sits squarely on my shoulders to resolve, and i try. Lao Tzu says, “The truth is not always beautiful, nor beautiful words the truth.” Am i obsequious and it galls me to the core that my pristine sense of justice is flawed and that i am a bootlicker by nature¿ i d k - all i can manage anymore is to calmly reflect on truth as close as i can get to it without inflaming the fictions and fantasies of others of my species with similar difficulty trying to understand and navigate a path toward peace of mind and acceptance of one’s personal responsibility for their behavior. Before, with an intact ego it was possible to distinguish my failings from the misery of others, but the deeper i dig the more i must accept it is not anyone’s failings as much as a bogus premise about value i project about my own unresolved issues.

I do not wish evil upon you, and there is nothing about my eminent demise that can provoke that from me. My life is as Mr. Dylan stated so rightly, little more than a greasy skid mark in the scheme of things; so exaltation, or condemnation aside - it just feels better to wish you well and for me to continue searching for ways to contribute to your ease, rather than rail for ways to even the score. I accept that i am unimportant, yet even that fragile desire is out of scope with the conflagration that is burning all around us, but as “Popeye” said, i am what i am and it helps me to picture you smiling at my feeble desires, rather than imagine you scowling at my delusional fantasies…

jts 11/09/2020  

http://stoanartst.bl

reprinted with permission - all rights reserved

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100920 - Extinction Chronicles ·

I live in bicycle heaven - a good thing too, for i own no vehicle other than my Asama bicycle, and my CA DL expires in one week · lucky me. I did not own an automobile until i was 23 years of age, which in California time is the equivalent of getting married at the age of 40; i forget exactly which was first, a mini cooper, or the 67 Chevrolet Impala station wagon i bought from Mr. Edwards next door to where i grew up. Had i been wiser, i could’ve been still driving that car, but on my 1st excursion to San Francisco from OC, my ignorance of the importance of oil to an auto seized the motor outside of San Luis Obispo. Whoever said “life is nothing but lessons,” wasn’t lying. It has been a good thing that my twisted mechanical comprehension favors the simplicity of bicycles, for at my age, given my prior renegade lifestyle, keeping my heart rate up daily is the only thing that stands between me, Covid-19 and senile depression - a state of mind id’ve rather been less conversant with than i am and a retrovirus i’ve been told is lethal to my demographic. 

Yeah, whaddya gonna do - the nazis in DC are making big noise about making off with my lifetime contribution to SS, and i don’t mean the ‘merican version of the Schutzstaffel however much that pissant wannabe Jabba the Hut in office would like to say it has been. I washed dishes when _rump’s daddy was paying lawyers to declare little d’s bone spurs were too severe to serve - at least i had the testicles to ignore the registration, and to this day i’ve no idea how that conscientious decision wasn’t met with similar consequence that my elder brother faced refusing to muster to Vietnam: May my dossier reflect such for the fascist goons managing data for the corporate overlords too fucking pink in the cheeks to even know what i’m referring to -

“Bicycle Heaven,” you too-dumb-for-consumer-fodder-running-dogs is how i remember where i learned to ride in Old ‘merica; the kind of place where your father wouldn’t let you drive his bright red Mustang Mach II, not because he didn’t love you, but because you didn’t pay for the privilege and he still required its ride for his failed real estate speculation entrepreneurial escape from the social tedium of teaching literature to mooks who’d rather be watching “Soupy Sales,” grooving to the “Beach Boys,” or trying to fathom Bob Dylan, rather than listen to a soon-to-be-forgotten minor poet out of Bellflower CA on his 2nd marriage plumbing the rising wisdom of the indigenous voice in reactionary Orange County California.

It is a complicated world we are leaving too soon, and i remain at a loss as to how to prevent unnecessary mayhem. I believe that it has something to do with daily exercise which my magic bicycle yields as long as i possess discipline enough to apply, though old habits die hard and the noble beast should have more oil more regularly than that which i grace it. I’m still trying to get my head around smoking less, and drinking for flavor, much less minding the mechanical g_d which in her infinite wisdom has bestowed on my later years. It was difficult enough to de-couple from a family constellation that in many regards was as noble as any one might find in history or literature. The reality though has been much different, for the recurring recrimination i find in strangers faces too much resembles the disdain reflecting my siblings conceit about my place in my funny little tribe.

I am getting better though and accept how awful it must be for my own brethren to suffer their collective delusion that my weird ways have been intended as destructive; i, at this late date am doing everything in my power to preserve the kindness, however brief i learned at the feet of my elders. I understand now that they were and are dealing with demons and likely wished to blunt the same suffering i have discovered - not of my making, any more than deliberate behavior on their part - how fucking awkward is that¿ I am petitioning forgiveness for people who behaved at the time with their best intentions · a truth to which i can close my eyes and recall hearing nearly 40 years ago by a stone carving journeyman whose own rigid view of his place in history allowed him to disallow my 7 year’s of apprenticeship carving stone and deny me journeyman status, but still i love him for what he taught me that day · “they are doing the best that they know how.” LIKE US ALL I AM SURE . .. 

jts 10/09/2020  

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com 

reprinted with permission - all rights reserved

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090920 - Extinction Chronicles ·

It’s nice to be nice - and there is no amount of criminal thuggery i’ve ever witnessed or have been aware of that will contravene my decision · The problem gets to be when fakeness gets into the equation, for example; nice thuggery, what is euphemistically described as coercion. I once spent months carving a statue of a gargoyle based on this dishonesty. It was part of a slice of a 36” marble column that had been turned on a machine in Italy at no small expense, only to find a recalcitrant municipal inspector who declared its mass was insufficient support and required a steel girder to bolster that particular architectural feature - picture a package of “Lifesavers” with a wedge cut out from it’s length so that a piece of metal could be inserted longitudinally in order to support a 5 lb bag of sand · I carved two pieces from this ugly piece of stone, one - “Liza Doolittle sans patrons” · the other my beloved “Gargoyle”.

The outer curve became his wings, and the inner diameter constituted the portal to hell which he was tasked to guard against incursions from the nether regions of hell. It was a challenge to fit this into a short semi-round piece of marble, but i’m a two-eyed cyclops carving 3-Dimensional statues i can’t even see because my world is comprised of 2-Dimensional glimpses toggling back and forth searching for mass; challenging designs don’t really enter into the mix; i’m lucky if i make it through the door, much less execute a work of art. The idea for the persona of this guardian whose mission is to be scarier than evil, was to evince the face of the “ultimate salesmen” with his penis in his hands, because everyone knows how frightened the world is of an erection, especially one that is being used for purposes other than the loving procreation of our species.

I was showing an emerging version to my friend the door-maker/carpenter and he asked “well what are the two hands supposed to be doing¿” - a fair question which i tried to explain, after which he asked, “why not just show the penis?” I had no good answer, and could find no good reason to not, forgive the pun, “cut it to the bone.” I don’t regret the decision, and have never had any real evil befall me or my world that i’m aware of since its creation; so i guess it was a good idea. There sits Mr. Gargoyle, salesman par Excellance ready to face any unwilling vendor from the depths of hell with even better explanations than what that demon might try to sell in our world. We are surrounded by men selling shit no one wants or needs until they are told “you are incomplete until you own ______” fill in the blank - to me that is a scary abdication of personal agency. I decide what i want, what makes me whole, what helps me to be more human than when i was born.

Yet here i sit arguing metaphysical realities about which i have no substantive proof, while the entirely rational world i am supposed to have faith in is on fire and the leadership so corrupt that a thug family has cowed a 250 year-old democracy into subservience and the caretakers of that tradition have been entirely overrun by racist minions advocating death or slavery to all non-white citizens. The rule of law in the land i was raised has been suborned by corporate entities claiming person-hood, but remain entirely unwilling to assume the mantel of civic responsibility, rather they would replace the legal apparatus with an Artificial Intelligence (AI) upon whose android frame deviant intellectuals are planning to infuse uploaded emulations of the human experience - and they say metaphysics is bullshit science?

I can only marvel at the kindness of my neighbors who have welcomed me into the bosom of their community as much as that is possible for one who can only parrot simple phrases much less wend his way through the eons of nuances of a culture capable of not only resisting, but defeating the empire my once vibrant democracy has mutated into. Writing this i realize i am in no hurry to die, and welcome the opportunity to limp with my gimp to a future that may possibly turn out more favorably than my dystopian-flavored education might have anticipated. The most encouraging truth i face is even at this late date i accept how little i know, and how much i have to grow - something i may still do with a little help from my friends, known and unknown.

 

jts 09/09/2020  

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com 

reprinted with permission - all rights reserved

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080920 - Extinction Chronicles ·

“War is peace, freedom is slavery, ignorance is strength” - George Orwell · What if George wasn’t just being ironic, what if Mr. Orwell was on the right track, but didn’t expand his thinking far enough to provide a real roadmap for a successful future for us all? Imagine having license to wage protracted war on every wrong you have ever witnessed; line up thugs and mow them down with brutal force¿ What if our free will yoked us to some mythological condition where restraint from violence only yielded greater oppression, and what if keeping the gloves on when faced with the nazis of our time only results in greater oppression by spineless apes serving as handmaidens to the “stinking rich”? What if disallowing every sacred text ever written about love and forgiveness rendered all of mankind, as Dinah Washington opined “better than the rest”¿

Interesting fantasy for a sultry afternoon when my home state is burning to its roots because a handful of petronazis want to extract more fossil fuel from mama Gaia at a time when all of non-venal science has proven that to be a “suicidal act.” What do you suppose master Lao Tzu meant when he recommended “empty their minds and fill their stomachs, . . . treat people like ‘straw dogs’.” A movie which BTW, though i find Dustin Hoffman generally tedious was, and remains a favorite. When master Tzu says ‘empty their minds’, is he referring to the placid surface the mind can achieve after disciplined meditation in a concerted effort to open our anatomical passions to the metaphysical reality of star dust filtering through our semi-tragic, semi-comedic existential protoplasm?

When master Tzu says fill their stomachs, is he referring to the “comfort food” one might find in cajun ribs out of Louisiana where black and white folk sit cheek-to-jowl chomping BBQ pork ribs and sucking down white lighting and lemonade¿ I’m lost anymore, but am willing to bet were i to sit at the bedside of her/his hurtingnest-hangover-wakeup; of the dumbest jackass in _rumpland with a half-pint of Jack Daniels and photos of the blackest pornography this sick world could render, that person rather than be inflamed would simply succumb and become the base character that s/he has aspired to since the 1st moment in their socialization said “you may not". 

Master Tzu has said elsewhere “give evil nothing to oppose, it will disappear on its own.” No passion i have ever asserted resulted in any cosmic success i am aware of - decades of increasing decline, maybe; countless doubts and questions, certainly - but never acquisition of the complete nature that my conceit provided as a standard. We have nothing left to lose, except everything this speckled planet of blue and green gave to us openly and freely from the first moment we found voice for the moon other animals could only howl at. We who claim such wisdom with our convictions and who have been completely unable to cede her power, just as “man” has never allowed himself the subjugation only “she” who delivered us in the 1st place can provide. (autobiographical frustration, no doubt - but ultimately of her own design · for ‘she’ is diabolical, and i am simply a faint offspring) don’t believe me ask her, she’ll tell herself if she still lives.

So who, or what came up with this pacific hysteria of calm love in the midst of an emotional inferno? It wasn’t me, but i feel like i’ve been blamed for it, and every injustice any other person has ever committed  from the time i first learned to listen to other people's feelings. I do not regret the that ineffable capacity, however sleight; Leonard Cohen himself said “i could not feel so i tried to touch,” so who am i to complain about some possibly emotional fiction that i possess ‘empathy;’ i say empathy based only on the narrow number of humans i’ve ever met who actually, “Grock” me, or i them. Anymore, my expectation for understanding is pretty much exhausted and i look forward to the ice cold reality of dead corpuscles surrounding my once vibrant consciousness - not from surrender about things i have no control over, but curiosity to learn more about the abundant things in this huge universe which i clearly have no control over - happy trails, mother & fatherfuckers ·

jts 08/09/2020  

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com 

reprinted with permission - all rights reserved

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070920 - Extinction Chronicles ·

Is the correct life a case of wanting nothing and accepting everything¿ i d k? I have created much havoc in my life clinging to concepts and ideas i had developed lovingly; believing emphatically that they would enhance, not just my life, but the lives of all i could share with clearly enough that those with whom i shared, could also see the wisdom i found in such logic - guess again. Is it as Herman Hesse concluded in “Siddhartha” a question of sitting by the riverside and watching the current pass without attempting to interfere, contain, or impede¿ i d k? What does this say about romantic love and its implicit obtainment of, or presentation to, devotion of one’s love interest¿ i d k?

What does it mean to be of service¿ is writing 5 paragraph essays, however high-minded i might wish them to be, a devotion? Leonard Cohen in one of the last of his compositions stated quizzically “I didn’t know I had permission to murder and to maim;” i know as a child born within a decade of the last World War (now just a polite euphemism) me and my classmates spent a great deal of time playing “war.” We had generals, lieutenants and toy guns enough to kill every living thing within range; no one told us that we were not allowed to pick our own enemies, or that our games would make it easier for us to be trained for real fighting, with real death and absolutely no good end.

We relied on our parents, our teachers, our clergy and increasingly, what Pop disparagingly described as “The Boob Tube,” for providing the worthy enemy for our childish games. Having been a happy member of the YMCA’s “Indian Guide” program, cowboys and indians didn’t hold much interest, but owning more than one “GI Joe” made it important to lobby for trips to the toy store to procure the latest killing instrument which sometimes came with sparks and the ratatattat of automatic weapon fire. Short of that, there was always the realistic squirt guns that often ironically resembled the German Lugers of the WWII fame. After my eardrum was ruptured in an unsupervised firecracker frolic at the local park, my zeal for warlike fantasies took a far less physical path and i amused myself drawing military planes or building models of military planes; an activity which eventually culminated in a stint designing parts for real killing machines in the aerospace industry.

A shame, i will never live long enough to atone for. I used the money earned to put myself through college; helping two wives do the same and partially raising a young girl whose father had poor impulse control - and that doesn’t begin to unwind the karma i have taken on, consciously and unconsciously. I have learned to accept my interest in improving the moral choices of others is more resistance on my part toward anyone curbing the flow of this river of one i seem to have become; isolated - without beginning and whose end appears to be the last conceit which the universe seems to have every intention of depriving me - this should be interesting. I have no idea what steps to take, or which direction to go, but go i must, and yes of course that imperative seems to coincide with my ability to walk - go ahead, tell me g_d isn’t the ultimate ironist and her humor doesn’t border on the wicked.

It may that i have provided her so much mirth with my cross-eyed confusion about where i am, what i am, even what i should be that she has taken pity and removed all delusion of control from my path such that all i will require is appetite enough to maintain motor control, thirst enough to keep my diapers damp and blindness enough that i can’t see so far ahead to become frightened¿ i d k? I do know it has been a jolly good time, and i am, and have tried to make up for the pain i have caused - intentionally and unintentionally, with differing degrees of success. I welcome any insights, near and far as long as you don’t dam up my current or divert me from the most direct course to my logical conclusion, wherever the hell that might be. And by all means you are welcome to take a dip and refresh yourself if you find my fluid refreshing, but know that if you attempt to pirate my water for profit, it will dry up like the desert my genes hail from and whatever moisture you manage to seize will only be the echoes of tears you’d like shed but may no longer, ever.

jts 07/09/2020  

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com 

reprinted with permission - all rights reserved

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