011120 - Extinction Chronicles ·

a blank page @ 4:38 pm - oh my · i’d planned avocado sandwich on dark rye and found my toaster not only with too narrow an opening but the 3-prong male plug without a willing and accommodating 3-hole female receptacle - metaphor is everything. The news reports describe a weather condition the size of the entire country which has provided me refuge, sanctuary and education since July of 2019; i am indebted with little resource to repay besides a cash outlay which may evapaporate after the election referendum 3 November 2020. The results may provide humanity with a breather while the corporate overlords fashion the last links in the chain, or result in a  full scale putsch that will render Burning the Reichstag of 1932 a minor trashcan fire as a footnote of little historical import.

Last night i expressed my sincere admiration for the beauty of a “doe eyed serving wench”, who if one peered deeper is profoundly funny with an acerbic wit beyond her years. I know this from fb video of her displaying her new T-Shirt booty scripted with “If Sad was a Bird, I’d be High as Fuck.” Though she be just 21, this alone was enough to coax me from my lair, 2 full decades younger than my grandmother was when she married my grandfather 20 years her senior. Time is nigh, and if Rembrandt’s angel model is to arrive in time enough for me to create with whatever crumbling creative capacity the universe wishes to preserve of my beleaguered existence, i’m game, for i’m way past the catechism of my youth and completely prepared to embrace - “as you wish is as you end.”

I want to be happy, what provides me happiness in my world has been intense creative effort with the minimum of strife and rancor, however much my own built-in instigation inflamed each new opportunity to the contrary. I sit here, aging and more timid by the minute knowing that whatever bravery i may have felt in life has mostly been the result of a beautiful woman working the tethers of my soul. I’m not even sure anymore whether i would entertain that ever receding conceit of autonomy i had set my compass to guided by the hand of many generations' hubris of self-will, hiding behind obeisance parading as independent thought.

One can hope, and one can determine, but what one cannot do is fake it. The deeper i plunge into the caverns of the only terrain i will ever know for sure - my own heart · the more i doubt all that what i’ve held sacred and have wondered about is simply what i have abjured. “What you resist, persists.” - C.G. Jung · How is it possible to reconcile the depravity of our entire species with condemnation of any one element. How can i sit here and claim superiority over d. _rump, when i cannot faithfully renounce the greed and hatred he has uncovered in my own heart, if only by my repulsion to every gesture he makes and every nerve he scabs.

I do not want to be shut off by the cartoon character who may very well be appointed Hizzonner of planet Gotham. If i am to die, i would, as he will certainly do so - naked to the bone · If there are stories to be told or anyone left to tell them to, i'd like to have died content knowing that i was as honest to you as my times would allow; and i allow between the darkness that is my own heart and what i have torn loose to share is a vast gulf. This chasm between what i know to be true about myself and what i share is not from deceit on my part, but from a lack of courage. I know how hard it has been for me to face my defects, my evil and my fear; i honestly see no point in rubbing your nose in my, what i feel to be filth; this reluctance of mine is from shame, and excoriating judgement which is mine alone to shoulder. Were i to open my heart to you and describe the depth of my depravity as i see it - i will have in some way asked you to carry a burden that is not yours. Where i am willing and able to share another’s burden, that is a choice i make, but to leave mine by the side of the road like toxic waste in a walmart sack for another to carry away is chickenshit; that is as honest as i can get for this writing.

jts 01/11/2020 

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com all rights reserved

∞ 

311020 - Extinction Chronicles ·

All Hallows Eve - oh boy · this should be interesting, if i could just get this mask of kindness off and be my plain old really scary self. You think i’m kidding - the table i write at in my rain-soaked mold stinking boutique (fake) Villa within a World Heritage Site there are many i’m sure i cross paths with but repeal away from me like a Small Pox infected “injun” from the Gr8 Plains after the buffalo slaughter & i’m not entirely sure why. As a dual-eyed cyclops from birth, i’m more than accustomed to people backing away from my gaze since birth, but this crusty scarred maniac in their midst suspects it is my utter contempt for their conceit to turn an ancient community into the 21st Century Côte d’Azur for Southeast Asia, replete with castles on the coastline and a well-trained servant class convinced that the next rung on the capitalist ladder from servant to "lord of the manor" will be “Entrepreneur 1st Class” just as the hoards of aerospace workers from my generation were persuaded that as soon as they finished building weapons, they would gain research positions in Astro-Physics that would make Richard Feynnman proud.

The allusion to a castle on the central coast is no joke, and with anyone capable of simple financial research devoid of wishful thinking will find the massive capitalization in Viet Nam benefits a handful of colonialists as has been the “boilerplate” of occupation throughout the world - I will likely be expelled for such counter-revolutionary observations, but i would rather die in a gutter in some foreign land than allow the smarmy conceit that claps for herr _rumpf clap anywhere else but the Harley Hog’s Head death camps of Sturgis South Dakota, and the 462,000 super-spreaders of hate, pestilence and death; i mean that as my dearest Aussie friends immune to the arrogance and hubris of a cartoonish conceit fashioned in the clone factories of Stephen Miller’s hate mills might say - “in the nicest possible way” ·

How sad for the too rich born and too stupid digital doofuses lost on the “wrong side” of history for all their arrogant fantasies about “social engineering” fueled by unscaled wealth lacking “real world collateral,” such as values, empathy, history or self-awareness. “Pride goeth before the fall,” in biblical spades. Just like the charlatans of ancient times with a little chemistry under their belt able to bend the faith of the “great unwashed”, you cling to your surveillance conceits like pathways of escape for the rats scampering down the chain of a sinking ship. Your “zeroes and ones” are all for naught and the empty place in your heart is like a bull’s eye on the target of existential survival - “Love is the only engine of survival” · 

Get a fucking clue, you’ve lost - the boot George quoted about on the face of man was as much a caution to humanity as a road map for your peculiar concept of a future of opulence for a handful; and depravation for billions - how fucking stupid can you get, or is it arrogance that made you believe your vision of hoards of humans lined up to provide you votes, cash, pussy, drugs - even forgiveness for your deceit and dishonesty is something you’ll need to take up with those that presumed to teach you manners when they themselves, had no clue. Come and see me if you possess the gonads to face a fierce and honest repartee, rather than the covert manipulation that narcissists cling to for confirmation of a mythical power born of no more than petulance and whining. 

We are entering the late stage of capitalism and you are on the wrong side; you lack perception and intelligence adequate to guide the last vestige of our kind to anything that resembles sanctuary, and though i’d prefer to spit than laugh - laughter at your fatuous ignorance and pathetic weakness is all that is left to this weary voice · you obviously possess nothing that resembles gumption, valor or whiskers enough to face the mayhem you have wrought without the aid of your trusty slut AI - good luck with that. When i am laying naked and happy with the last woman on earth who has taken pity on my unredeemable soul and your are, as Spiro T. Agnew learned to do “twisting in the wind,” by training and by determination, i will wish you Bon Voyage, because that is how i was raised - ciao baby ·

jts 31/10/2020 

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com all rights reserved

∞ 

301020 - Extinction Chronicles ·

Curiosity is what dame Chodron proffered for why to continue on the path of Dharma, regardless of the dislocation of getting “tossed out of the nest,” weekly, daily or hourly. I go in and out of focus depending on how easily what constitutes "i" can slip away from the mantle of “ego,” which however shredded or fractured, seems to cling to my mortal coil like the stink of muck from some bad plumbing assignment. Still when despair is the alternative and the thrill of happiness punctures the day’s events like the trill of a happy chick or quacking duck - i know she, dame Chodron is right in the deepest places of my heart. Just know i am listening to Grandpa Tran mimicking clucking sounds for his latest attentive grand baby and i know all is right and will be right in the world as long as such simple exchanges are made; i can hear baby Tao mimicking sounds and the two of them are utterly absorbed in the bliss of life and i am redeemed, though i can hear barely with one ear and know nothing of the words they exchange - except for the language of love ·

My storm ravaged meal concoction is simmering and i walk the continual plank of vaporizing too much nutrition from the mixture while fashioning some elixir that purges the mold from my eustachian tubes and am just grateful i have an internet pulse with which to check spelling. All of the staging and fantasy about fashioning powerful prose has evaporated with the dull throb of congestion in my troubled ear canal complicated by a silly addiction to the tar of tobacco and the defect of character for not riding in the rain soaked pathways of where i’m still not sure why i remain. Judgement is the theme i dwelled on prior to sitting down to actually write - thoughts full of self recrimination and forgiveness and all the whys and wherefores of such self absorbed nonsense · however useful and necessary for self awareness and growth. I don’t give a fuck about you is what i tell myself, yet the truth is i am never far from the voice that renders one prisoner when you care what others think - channeling Lao Tzu ·

I sleep well enough, maybe too well and reflect on relationships that barely reach the threshold of such. I fantasize about the angel of my death who will hover over my shroud and lament my passing after she has allowed me days, weeks maybe even years of study of her supple young body informed by tender expressions of her value for my living breath tempered with fierce protection for my fragile state that she misconstrues and continually relents and warms to my tender caresses at the end of each long day's work: drawing, painting, sculpting or just fucking. Go ahead tell me i’m not delusional and i will happily concur with you if it wasn’t for the decades of preparation i’ve applied to such a passing.

I began serious study of the female anatomy before my 21st birthday in the city of New York at the prestigious Art Student’s League. I was a custodian and otherwise on full scholarship. I was a renegade and smoked pot on the roof where now rests the pointed coccyx of the capitalist’s Sword of Damocles comprised of Penthouses cantilevered over my Alma Mater because a gangster whore ingratiated himself into a leadership function and then brokered the sale of the “air rights” over the school for blood money from Nordstroms for their penthouse super tower. It was shoved through by greed, threat and financial might - no different than ensconcing the current fascist administration in what was once a “Great Notion.” Now 4 years into the 4th Reich ‘merican traitors are enjoying 230,000 deaths and still voting for their demise.

Form follows function was a platitude of the intellectual art class that sold its soul long before Pablo Picasso the master Art Speculator stooped to withholding 80% of his known works from the marketplace for no other reason than to goose the price of his work - and you wonder why we can’t have nice things. Artists are human and as such are subject to the same greed as amoral, asocial, narcissistic trust fund babies faced with the choice between a lifetime of opulence at the expense of a starving humanity besieged by climate havoc wrought by a bunch of petronazis and the spoils of a merchant class hooked up to the “Digital Information Super Highway” milliseconds ahead of any other investment dollar, shekel, dong - what have you · It can only be from “bitter searching of the heart” that any of us will have the remotest effect on the survival of our collective species - wake the fuck up and VOTE · then “praise the lord and pass the ammunition” - A. Nonymous ·

jts 30/10/2020 

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com all rights reserved

∞  

291020 - Extinction Chronicles ·

Anyone thinking the storm has passed is not paying attention; near as i can tell there are a lot of people not paying attention - especially those with no storm in their laps, as yet · yet even those knee deep in muck or ash depending on the “fire or ice” in their particular universe are resorting to business as usual and leading with their chins hoping the “market” will recover, progressives secretly pulling for the herd immunity his highness the “stable genius, father to Barron _rump has glommed onto as a foil for further perfidy and mayhem the rubes just seem to gobble up. Makes one wish for the good old days when they just made movies about the “Rainmaker” instead of whole scale slaughter in the wake of “Sturgis Hog Day.” And again it comes down to what night star you are following, and whether or not that illumination is a star, or a stain on the emotional lens through which you perceive your particular corner of the universe. 

Of late, i’m coming to the blindingly bright dawn of realization that i’m not the dewey-eyed romantic i over-compensated with using my emotionally starved childhood as foundation for making ignorant decisions about unavailable companions attributing qualities of character fashioned out of whole cloth to satisfy the slightest fantasy of acceptance not unlike growing up in my family of narcissistic predators - i jest, sort of. Any defect i attribute to them, is but a myopic amplification of my own hunger for respect and belonging twisted into some justification for feelings that are my own but that i’m just too fucking scared to deal with in between super Typhoon #9 and the possibly even greater #s 10 & 11 soon to follow - if not this year than next - lucky us ·

I used to be funny, but now i feel like the cartoon character in Paul Simon’s “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes.” My floor is beginning to feel slimy from the crushed ants and the spilled beer from late-in-the-evening denial and the vinegar dripping from my ceiling in an organic attempt to abate the rain induced mold from capitalism’s ultimate product - neglect. Yet all in all, i’m sitting upright, have some wherewithal to do lord knows not what with, and my heart is light enough to crack “wise,” though again it is braggadocio of too much solitude coupled with too much conceit and not enough self awareness to render an accurate description however much i try. I accept, without the guidance of a loving companion or admission to a sangha that embraces freaks such as myself - there is not much left to me, but complaint; try as i might.

I routinely lose track of paragraphs much less trains of thought, i seem only able to discipline an unfortunate indoctrination about attributing to others feelings that are clearly mine own - how fucking embarrassing is that ¿? It would be cool if i remained stout and stalwart, but i’m barely able to navigate a slippery patio without mincing baby steps, and any chauvinistic response i might have had for the wannabe shrews in our midst is now reduced to sniping and simple avoidance of loud and aggressive people, for i have lost most delusions of a gentle ending to my violent life regardless of any sanctimonious efforts on my part to shore up the persona whose wrist i clutch because i fear it would slip out of a hand hold.

And still i try, because that is how i was raised, both mother and father had endured enough adversity in their lives to make every effort to fortify this misbegotten soul to a life of futility, however delusional that sanctuary has become as haven. I would rather have endured 20 lifetimes in which to achieve a single noble fantasy they entertained watching over the gangly loudmouth cyclops they alone had courage to own. They, my parents in the brave conceit of victors from a single war against the fascist incursion and flush with feelings of success as “the greatest generation” lived and live utterly oblivious to the betrayal and subterfuge enacted on their noble “dimes” by the agents for deceit and betrayal “voted” on daily in boardrooms of the barely conscious fascist overlords to achieve what Mein Furer _rumpf has stomped his foot about - this time · putsch by fit of pique, who knew ¿? save maybe those few who can remember the tantrums of Herr Adolf .  ..  ···

jts 29/10/2020 

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com 

reprinted with permission - all rights reserved

∞ 

281020 - Extinction Chronicles ·

Who knew a typhoon could be so instructional and so mysterious at the same time. Yesterday late afternoon, early evening my friend the mystic artist posted a meme about “gentle raindrops falling” with a time stamp of 6:58 pm, earlier another artist sage had included photographic instructions for lashing two doorknobs together for reinforcement. I have since learned you can sleep through a typhoon if you are willing to sleep with one eye open; that if “she who would be queen” is being testy - let her; my farmer friends are kind to the bone, braving the 100km per hour winds to render their duck friends, albeit future dinners · comfort in the intervening time; and some how leaves blew through the secured back door to land over the drain on the plastic stool and create a lake puddle from droplets unwilling to stay outside - my friend the rat who i’m sure is related to the movie star rat from “Ben”, boosted two of my three candles in the dead of night - leaving her teethmarks on the 3rd · and somehow an offering in folded yellow waxy paper with pictograph writing was left at my doorstep containing a very plausible copy of a $100 C note - as they say in East L.A. “s’plain me.”

The meme with the kindly time stamp, now provides realtime information for predicting the duration of the blackout - cam on Anh Ay Duc Bet · the missing candles, simply fortify my anthropomorphic theory about my house guest Madame Rat, and sure enough moments later i found her teeth marks on the cap of the bootleg plastic bottle of rice wine - the night before i had interrupted her slurping of my pot-au-feu a-la-poulet that i left on the stove; as she lept off the counter after i disturbed her meal, i can swear like the current ‘merican president that she gave me the “Bronx Cheer” - ‘thrbbppp’, were my vision sharper i’d likely seen the 3rd digit of her paw in salut, but will not chance her next visit by leaving the container exposed for her to topple and slurp all that distinguishes me from sleepless despair, and sleepless hungry despair; kidding, sort of.

These two paragraphs have cost me 5% of the 89% left i left myself after arrogantly not recharging during this morning's fb activism just prior to being cutoff from the electrical trough for thoroughly rational and commendable civic precautions at a time when leaves can be blown through closed door and puddles made on random stools. My prayers are that the sticks of incense i reflexively burn, while wondering whether they are simply of no help, or that without them the massive natural calamity befalling friends of mine and enemies alike would just be that much greater - i d f k · I do know i’m glad i got to the rice wine before my wannabe rodent house guest figured out how to topple the bottle and consume my precarious store of liquid courage.

And in the midst of all this solipsistic bullshit i feel for “she who would be queen”, so accustomed to stopping men in their tracks with a glance to find my frozen heart not responding to a fury that serves neither her nor her ambitions, much less something i fear. I fear; i do not understand why when i toss cabbage, oatmeal and nut crumbs to the duck cluster outside my window, they seem more afraid of me than the storm. Days earlier, i’d crushed mollusks with Anh Ay Tran that is apparently the ducks staple, but their foraging appetite seemed stifled with the ravaging 100 km per hour winds; what i don’t know about mother Gaia and her kin will fill the unfilled volumes of my thinking when i pass - how sad, and not. There will be others wanting to learn from farmer Tran and his family about how to nurture food and livestock while weathering fierce and more fierce storms from a paradigm based on greed no one questioned them about nor obviously learned much from observing them. Hopefully the chemical traces left in my synapses at my moment of death will constitute some information somehow for those facing an extinction not at all of their making.

My friends the ducks have returned to their semi-protected aisle between our two buildings - whether my nutritional offering in the midst of this typhoon was useful or useless, i may never know - but i tried · what is left to decide for that interminable silence between reconnection to the “information super-highway” when electricity is restored and my flickering house lights can once again pose a danger to me from electrocution is anybody’s guess, like not knowing the mind of a woman or learning how to fathom one’s own heart after a lifetime of indoctrination · I accept fully that compared to the force of nature, mine own ambition and life is vastly insignificant; i am struggling to understand how much that will affect my end days. Right now i am trying to track the effects of mold on my ear canal from an ancient wound, and the toxic repercussions of a dissipated youth squandered too far into my dissipated dotage @ 77% battery charge, hoping for electricity at 3:07 pm is little different than hoping the mold growing on my walls will not influence the disease of rot from my early on broken eardrum, so i will now go and fashion some gruel of oatmeal and pot-au-feu that will retain enough coldness in my electric-less “icebox” and provide nutrition to combat the emotional stress i feel while wishing you all a wholesome future full with courage and wisdom to prevail over a handful of capitalist weasels who care not a whit about you, but what you can pay them.

Good luck to us all.

jts 28/10/2020 

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

reprinted with permission - all rights reserved

∞ 

 

271020 - Extinction Chronicles ·

In 2005 i awoke from an emergency appendectomy - 6 days later my wife of 13 years took a powder while i was at work · In no position to recuperate i walked the 2 miles down Figueroa to the local hipster doofus art gallery to, as they are fond of saying in East L.A., represent at an art "opening" my soon to be ex could be found. I share this for no other reason than the qualitative feeling of being alive during that 4 mile trek. Against the 13 years of an increasingly blunted emotional reality of, as master Hank Williams Sr sang, a half-hearted love, each step of that 4 mile meditation rang with a vividness of existence i’d not known, for too overlong. I’m okay with that, sort of. Each day after that long night walk seared into my being the precarious ecstasy of living fully in the moment. Much pain has followed from those events, which has precluded the convenience of pointing any finger of responsibility for anything, anywhere but in my own face; so now 15 years later, in another part of world entirely feeling the same blunted emotional affect of that time, there is only myself to comfort.

And not, i have found great exhilaration through consideration of other - the more anonymous the better. Almost as though the paradigm of hooks associated with generosity i was raised to believe; if abandoned could decouple karma with each anonymous unexpected contribution; and not. The beast ego is never far from the killing floor, but how to defame greed with one hand and inspire kindness with the other remains a Gordian Knot. There is no transforming another - there is only self to change · It’s not like we don’t have roadmaps throughout history for “right thinking, right speech and right action.” The problem for me is i’m an amorous bohemian who only wishes to cuddle and dwell on some creative approximation of, as they say “the twist of a woman’s ankle.” Not really, that is an example of braggadocio my generation was weaned on - Pop who evolved to be the most kind and loving feminists i still now know of though he be dead ·

When 13 as a 2-eyed ugly and loud cyclops amidst a family of beauties, i asked this same man - how do you know if a woman likes you, i’d not yet reached the stage of romantic idealization that a girl could love me · his honest and heartfelt advice at the time was; “when she submits to you.” His beatific belief at the time revealed nothing more than the sum total of his upbringing and his paternal reaction to an exploded atomic family, becoming a father of 4 within 8 years of marriage to a woman he’d known for as many weeks having met Ma - a “checker” at one of the 1st Ralph’s Supermarkets in post “WWII” ‘merica. His sincerity and authenticity as a human allows me to quietly march to my death alone, or with some lucky broad who wants to be ravished and adored as long as i draw breath and she remains honest. Don’t laugh, stranger things have happened; i’ve already been married 3 times so i know more than a lot of lads playing the “gimme, gimme” game. 

The problem for her, whoever she be is i’m in no hurry to become a beast of burden unless i could more resemble my neighbor farmer Ong Tran. The sun is setting, and storm #9 is gathering a head of steam to crash the coast sometime before morning - still he is pounding corrugated tin into shields against an unknown force, for no other reason i can see than to protect his courageous loving wife Comrade Baha and their poultry. Early on, i’d leap to emulate this brave couple but emulating those in my family constellation has taught me well that what you see is not necessarily what you get. My brethren are loving decent people doing their level best and you would be lucky to expire next to anyone of them - if you weren’t i · That conditional love is not what i want for my passing, rather i’d like to learn the courage that gives the Oxen heart to Anh Ay Tran, or the stalwart courage Comrade Baha demonstrates with each stride from one loving activity to the next. I count myself fortunate to have shared air with these people if storm #9 determines my end before i can rise in the morrow. 

You see what happens when you get old - paragraph 5 gets neglected · May you learn to know how that feels. I have done all i could do to vote in onrushing election, however much master Orwell’s honest estimate of our collective future of a “boot stomping on a human face, forever" haunts my sleep and animates my days. To give you an idea of Pop and his cheerfulness which will be covered ground for anyone not just tuning in - during our last lessons together, during which i would ask endless inquiries hoping to forestall that “last question,” he would eventually reply, “I don’t know, but I’m sure glad I’m old.” I’m now reaching a point a decade later where i can appreciate better the comfort he must have been feeling from staring into the abyss. Just now, wanting to aid my friend the farmer, i turned on the kitchen lights i never use hoping the additional light could help his stalwart heart face the storm and his last licks with the hammer, i realized then that the “ground fault” that renders the bulbs in my bedroom always glowing, flickers all the lights in the house i live, and which has been drenched to a point where mold now covers a good 60% of my ceilings, and that the coming 100 mph hour winds could conceivably create voltage enough  to stop my heart; now i must rest like us all · good night friends.

jts 27/10/2020 

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

reprinted with permission - all rights reserved

∞ 

261020 - Extinction Chronicles ·

This should be interesting, i’m commencing the day’s writing chore at a time i’d normally be wrapping up, and i’m tweaking my normally rigid routine. I realized that i enjoy sipping whiskey because you get more bang for the buck, and you pee less nor feel bloated like when drinking beer. I accept i will offend some in the audience delving into the shameful practice of altered states, but without a regular "squeeze" one relates as best as one can. When a younger fellow, i shared my drinking theory with a mental health professional, he remarked, “oh, you’re a scientific drinker,” that coupled with a passing observation by an examining physician, one of many after Dr. Welby M.D. retired, this examining physician opined - drink for taste, not the high · The problem with whiskey is not unlike a woman who clutches; it’s a great feeling when both of you are in the groove, but lord help you if one wants distance and can’t explain why. I stopped drinking for a decade after my 3rd wife bailed 6 days after i enjoyed an emergency appendectomy. It was a great 10 years.  .. Tobacco free, I ran the L.A. Marathon, enjoyed dopamine addiction like a boss running 20 miles a week for a decade.

I can say i ran an hour in Death Valley at noon in late July the year my father died - ultimately what i accomplished was oblonging my short-leg socket so when i fell off the rock truck in Romblon, Philippines onto my short-leg flank all i did was make a satchel size bruise that left enough coagulated blood deposits to inform me of the very real need for a disciplined and consistent range-of-motion regime well into my elder years if i expect to remain standing past 66 - my luck just seems to be the gift that keeps on giving. Just the other day i read the Dalai Lama expound on the role of toxins in battling disease; while i believe the allusion he was creating centered on language and the unfortunate, but sometimes very necessary use of excoriating phrases, that is not inconsistent with the sage Lao Tzu who also observed “the truth is not always beautiful, nor beautiful words the truth.” I’m pretty sure that when i die which we all do, my incarnation will be as the triplet sibling to Madam Paradox’s twins - “T’is and T’isn’t”

If my luck holds, as it has this lifetime, i will be born to Madam Paradox as “T’ain’t” which for the libertines in the audience know to be the region in the “nether realm” as the highly erotic gap between the gonads and the anus, if not that than the bottom step in the mausoleum memorial to the senseless deaths from the plague of 2020, after mankind had come to her senses and put the greedy war monger capitalist class back on a short leash and intentionally utilized the intensity of their pathological greed to illuminate mushroom farms that had miraculously sprung up devouring the plastic particles which ultimately failed in their effort to achieve a sentient state. This was just about the time AI went off the rails in its own arrogant attempt to achieve singularity, for just like its progenitors the narcissistic billionaire coders responsible for that testimony to hubris, right at the moment when it became self-aware - it, AI was blinded by its own beauty and went into a backdoor loop calculating Pi to its last place · t’was never heard from again.

Storm #9 is bearing down on Vietnam and the people of the city where i live are rising to the occasion with aplomb and loving courage. My artist friends are propagating an exquisite meme demonstrating how to lash door knobs together for French doors giving added strength. This storm is predicted to be 16 on a scale that ends at 17, so it’s anybody’s guess what that’s going to look like. I marvel at the resiliency and generosity of spirit of this population; as an example, Murphy’a Law dictated my toilet paper would run out just about dead center of the eye of the storm, but when i stopped at the local bodega, all she could do is shake her head pointing to the empty shelf, miming 4 fingers when asked about how long before the next delivery. From no more than a wince from my cheek, she removed herself to a hallway and returned with two rolls - i can only grimace realizing in the land of my birth, people have been shot in struggles over toilet paper post Covid-19. 

paragraph 5 can be found in the realm of prayer for all who suffer in order to embrace the unbearable and to extend to the unextendable.

"I heard a voice at the dusk of day sayin', 'be gentle brother, be gentle and pray'." - courtesy of the loving heart of Bob Dylan ·

jts 26/10/2020 

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

reprinted with permission - all rights reserved

∞