121120 - Extinction Chronicles ·

 

For all i know, today is Pop’s birthday (111224); he was fond of muddying the waters and whenever asked declared his birthday “Veterans Day” though we invariably celebrated it on the 12th - his last wife called him “Steve” for the 20 some odd years of their union · His name was Harold Reed Stevens; and the last text message i kept on my phone for a full year and half after his death ended with the exclamation “Harold Reed Stevens, JUNIOR.” Ya’ gotta give it up to a raconteur who dissembled to the end of a life predicated on integrity - small wonder Madame Paradox and her offsprings are my closest confidants · “non, je ne sais pas où ils sont; ne me demande plus; s'il te plait” merci.

I am easily enough found, and while not entirely open to your questions - will help how i may with what i have available. We are about to extinguish an entire DNA sequence simply from greed and stupidity - near as i can tell · Yet it seems this sequence of my DNA wrap around the sun is all about learning and doubt seems to be about the only thing i am certain of anymore. I know i’m gonna die, while reincarnation sows doubt about even that simple reality. But 3 wives and 50 years of loneliness out of 66 years on the planet is enough to sew doubt about air, much less - life ever after. People, otherwise intelligent people are building and launching weapons convinced there is some path out from where we “shuffle off this mortal coil.”

I don’t much care anymore - i like it when the ducks and chickens heed my call and come close to the protection my friends the farmers provide · even if that enclosure is only a gate to the charnel floor we all approach. If reincarnation is a fact, i would have no reluctance to returning as a fowl in the yard i live next door to. I have eaten from that table, and knowing i will never ride a Buffalo to ground and pierce it’s brave heart with a bow and arrow - that doesn’t mean i couldn’t. As a man-child i found myself on a dirt road between the Isthmus on the Island of Santa Catalina and the northern lee side of the island. I was on a YMCA camping trip and in the company of principal parties in my future - a faux best friend; the to-be-dead brother of a wannabe best friend; and the sometime lover of she who-would-be-queen. We trudged and we were as brave and free as ignorant humans could be, laughing at earthquakes at the time as “Ground Swell.” Some live, some are dead and all are dear; myself counting coup for my journey into the ever after knowing i walked up to the placid beast which could have at any instant trampled me to a pulp and pulled his chin-whiskers.

I can die happy, not because i harmed another creature - which i didn’t, but because i looked into the face of death before my time and said as best i knew how at the time, “I love and respect you, thank you for allowing me to tease you without killing me for my ignorance.” Of my many “only hopes,” is that many are given a similar opportunity to dwell that close to their demise and come away with as much learning as i have been afforded. I communicate little with any of the grown men from that event, “May Tom · r · i · p · “ He and i tried, as have his brother and i attempted to create congruity from the mystery; it is not a path with road signs or indications other than the faintest memories which hold us to our earthly duty; i am grateful for the love in my heart held fast by such memories, for love it seems is more substantive than any other squall in our unruly hearts.

But what the fuck do i know¿ a besotted gimp pulling his laming leg behind him on the peddle of the conveyance he uses to deny the obvious - “you gonna die sucka’” · I’m happy at this point to gain a few more whiffs of good free air, and to declare my contempt for any who would deprive the balance of our kind the same privilege. It would seem the nation of my birth made that mandate clear, but from where i sit, and from where i stumble to my struggle to repose; that mandate is not so abundantly clear. Too many in my wannabe homeland were pulling for the “Nazi” in our midst for me to quietly; what’s the expression¿? resign. Big Shots will plague our kind as long as greed and cruelty are accepted as measures of power and competence, but as the wise rock & roll revolutionary Jimi Hendrix proclaimed accurately as well as musically, “When the power of Love, overcomes the Love of power - the world will know peace.” Live with logic you stupid motherfuckers or stay the fuck away from me, for as the “friend” Bob Dylan declared honestly and truthfully, “I’m not as cool or forgiving as I sound. I've seen enough heartache and strife.” 

jts 12/11/2020 

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111120 - Extinction Chronicles ·

Though a WWII bomber pilot with a quixotic temper and passionate nature, i never saw my father strike my mother. Aside from the requisite belt-whippings, countenanced with children’s magazines stuffed in our pants, with a younger brother who resembled Tom Sawyer’s cousin Sid enough to evade serious disagreements with our father, i recall two beatings from my normally pacific parent: one was after i had described my sister to her face as a “bitch,” not really understanding the meaning of the word, however appropriate a moniker then, as it has become over the years, based only on the little that i know about her from her actions; the 2nd was when i declared my hair my own and would not cut it for anyone but myself. Imagine my surprise when my normally placid poet parent located me in my older brother’s bedroom asking if i had called her “bitch,” when he, my poet father began to “bitch slap” my 13/14 year-old head from side-to-side - surprise is a good word. The 2nd occasion of serious physical violence was in the same older brother’s room when he my father attempting the same physical domination to make a point, only to find my surprise had been converted to awareness and easily deflected his half-hearted blows after i had put up my “dukes.”

I left the home i’d grown up in hours later and began a pattern of giving up ground to superior forces which has allowed me to remain undaunted, however alone to this day. The most important lesson for me, it seems has been surrender; i’m not very good at it, but i continue to give up and have found over time it not only comes easier, but the only battle worth expending valuable resources is the one that requires that i surrender to myself. That self, however worthy an adversary, has become an even more invaluable friend - the friend i have searched for my lifelong. Mysteriously as that friend to me appeared, so too have any enemies i have had disappear, for with deep compassion and solidarity for anyone wishing to prevail over this solitary pilgrim and his peculiar reticence - i cede to you all, but that of my self the sole arbitrator of good taste and decency within the “Kingdom of The Odd Todd.”

The paradox of course is that the more i eschew strife, the more aware struggle becomes aware of me - incognito is not an option, remember i am a dual-eyed cyclops dying in some foreign nation; i possess a preternatural aversion to convention and lack any proper regard for the importance of conformance - t’was ever thus · so i ease into the current and resist nothing that requires struggle: against, for, with, around, silence or acquiescence to - rather and more importantly is to align as much as i can & learn to understand about the vacuum i am · (don’t blame me, take it up with Madame Paradox & her two offsprings, t’is & t’ain’t). I like to have fun and find no reason to not enjoy that which i am engaged with - just now · words, ideas and feelings. Fun, as i was helped to learn, is the capacity to play, laughing at you, laughing at me; crying for a tragedy or exalting in a victory; however transitory, false, and/or sacred any of those states manifests.

My anima is as best i can guess is a desert rat with bloody knuckles and a horn-toad heart. My mother was man enough to back my father up - himself, not one to be trifled with · he never surrendered to her, and i believe to this day that it is that act which doomed their otherwise passionate and fruitful union. How is one to parse such an example of maladaptive behavior and learn¿ that is a question? Pop the art of surrender - it took a broken hip at 86 and a catheter up his dick for the last 10 months of his life · but eventually, he gave it up to her, his lord god, LOVE. Understand that what i write here is hyperbole in service of a point, an ever receding idea that was born of my early year’s council from Pop, “It is not from accomplishment, but from the pursuit that you find meaning;” or my personal favorite homily - “character is not born in the calm;” unrealistically good son i wanted to be - of course i went in search of every storm i could find and discover the deeper recesses of my character. “Be careful what you wish for, you might get it.” - Oscar Wilde

I want a kind companion in a gentle world - i’ve had 3 so far and welcome another; if only more wisely and however unlikely one more kind · my last wife left me 5 days after an emergency appendectomy, she took with her my faith, my dog and my “best friend.” She was fun and fooled me completely - i thought i was fun too, but she learned me differently · The fault is my own, and i bless her absence; she reminded me at an advanced age, romantic delusion is not just an affliction of the young at heart. I’d like to think she has had some things to chew on from her escape, but the best i can do is wish her well and spend no more time thinking about that “existential excursion” than there are lessons i can still learn from “dishonesty, cruelty, arrogance and betrayal” all concepts rooted in my own delusions about “candor, kindness, humility and fidelity;” it doesn’t get any better than that - lucky me ·

jts 11/11/2020 

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091120/101120 - Extinction Chronicles ·

While the world rejoices, i reflect on the year 1976 - i broke the 5th metacarpal in both hands months apart in unrelated “accidents” · met, married & and divorced my 1st wife and gained 60 stitches along the inner length of my right forearm, missing, as the Dr. described at the time, my ulnar nerve by millimeters; my left hand was in a cast at the time - Lucky me · That my birthday corresponds to the date of the signing of the Constitution in 1787, has always provided me some solace given its rugged construction as well as its namesake, the still floating “Old Ironsides;” (next day) sail on oh mighty ship of state, sang Leonard Cohen in his ode to Democracy - so near, yet so far; opined Master Shakespeare. However, these are not named the “Arcadian Chronicles” because our future is assured just because we dodged a bullet from a 3rd-rate con artist who declared, prior to his election, that he could commit murder on 5th Ave in NYC with impunity, and who then went on to condemn at the time of this writing 239,000 American Citizens to unnecessary deaths - a number which could have been a fraction of that count, but for incompetence, arrogance and a general contempt for life.

This essay began with a gruesome recounting of personal misfortunes - not to establish a “false intimacy” but for one lesson of caution from that time. My employer - an energetic mouse of a man who exemplified “too many irons in the fire” - Bill Mor_tz · and his long suffering family, none of whom i can tell you a thing about 44 years later. This was a man who could drink a case of Michelob beer before lunch, and another half before dinner and still manage to break his transaxle attempting to climb the, at the time accessible hills behind one of my Alma Maters, Estancia HS in his Jeep Cherokee. There are still homeowners in the Westside of Costa Mesa, who either curse his name or name children after him - what i learned about a jackhammer attempting to perforate the concrete and rebar of his unwanted backyard swimming pool, i believe would allow me to walk onto any jobsite on the planet and honestly declare, i know “Jack Hammer.” Again the purpose of this recounting of a homily he shared sitting in the camper shell parked on his driveway that served as office to “Mor_tz Construction Company.” I sat and listened patiently after sharing my confusion about a crazy woman for a wife i didn’t have two weeks earlier, this while one hand was in a cast from a bone i broke myself hitting a wall, and an arm up to the elbow in gauze from sutures closing the rend in my arm from dragging it across an unwinding coil of flashing as i stepped into a covered roof hole from the previous day’s labor. 

Bill looked at me and pulled on his beer and peered at my two useless appendages that he was still paying wages for, because it was his roofing job, and he was that kind of guy. “Joseph” he said, “Pain is stupid, it is so stupid that you can outsmart it. We’ll take this sledgehammer outside and i’ll drop it on your foot. I promise, you won’t remember a thing about this woman or either one of your wounds.” I don’t doubt he was right about that however much else in his business he got wrong, at the worst possible time. For example - an installation down the coast - a San Clemente subdivision with houses stepped up a slope · some 20’ of elevation between slabs. Bill contracted to carve a 20’ block-wall “V” into the upslope side yard and install a spa/hothub. This “V” shaped wall required 18” footings below grade - almost like the universe was demonstrating to me, that no matter how bad my own misfortunes, there is greater misery in the world. We finished cutting the earth and would have begun pouring the footings the next day, when it began to rain and continued for the next 6 weeks.

During those weeks labor on what had been a neatly cut engineering feat anticipating many hours of hot water soaking in a plush Southern California enclave, deteriorated into a quagmire of wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of nothing but mud and misery. Where had once been the apex of a wall-ready wedge of earth became a rivulet of concern to a torrent that eventually undercut the very foundation of the upslope home. A cavity of many meters opened wider daily which took as many hours to prevent as did the increasingly questionable strategy of pouring concrete into a mud hole that grew greater daily during the relentless rain - Payroll eventually ran out before i learned whether our Herculean efforts kept the house upslope from sliding downslope, or if the homeowners ended up with a “V” shaped spa with a slender view of the California Coast.

An ambition that oddly echoes the cantilevered penthouses of the Nordstrom’s jutting over another of my Alma Maters, The Art Students League of NYC. Only we will not hear or know of the mayhem caused by a handful of tenants able to pay goofy money to have a northern penthouse view of Central Park - only because what will become an eventuality · tons of rich people’s homes falling onto the roof of a “sellout Atelier” of a once democratic art school will not occur until we are all dead and gone, that is why it was allowed; why the “economy - red or blue” is allowed to turn profit’s blind eye to destruction of life and property for no better reason than “it didn’t happen on my watch, sort of.” It may be that i was torn at this time in history for no other reason than to learn better what it means to care for others better than i care for myself - this idea itself a paradox, for the wisest i’ve heard say you cannot be compassionate to others more than you understand compassion for yourself. D.J. Trump may be the saddest person on the entire planet for all i know about him; that he apparently cares nothing at all for the people in my immediate community who are suffering great flood damage through no fault of their own does not absolve me concern for the “lowest of the low,” and if it not be me, it must be he. Madame Paradox - please get a life other than your intrusive philosophical interest in mine, for your questions about what is right and what is wrong are starting to piss me off - signed, your humble servant · the Hulk.

jts 10/11/20-09/11/2020 

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081120 - Extinction Chronicles ·

blank page after blank page - what a perfect metaphor of existence · i guess my existential luck is holding out though the rubes in my nation of birth seem to feel somehow the George Orwell’s boot on the face of man has been magically lifted because the ruling class changed its hobnail boots for gucci loafers, whaddya’ gonna do; take a powder from battling oppression and ignorance just because the last episode of “Murder and Mayhem for Profit” Season 45 episode 48 has gone into reruns while the dream machine refines the next Season’s opener; “How to Bomb Yemen & Make It Look Like It Was Famine’s Fault”. I've sold the first 13 episodes on spec to the recently registered _rumpf Network; subscriptions available at StephenMiller/BannonClone@Hateis.urs a subsidiary of Apple_fb_googol_ms.deptofdefenseforwhat nobodyisquitesureofanymore: make your cheques and taxfree contributions payable “The Ruling Class Off Shore Accounts”; C/o “none of your fucking business” - late payments carry a 1.5% carrying charge, accruable minutely.

Too funny, too late in the game - what i read myself writing is not peace, but the rind left from sucking every last rivulet of “how i love thee, let me count the ways” from the tears i scrape from the inside of my eyelids as a i wake from dreamless sleep. It wasn’t always like this for me. I’ve had a bountiful existence full of adventure, mostly provoked by fits of delusion about loving or being loved - always the best source of fictions, while fury and hatred remain thoroughly tedious entertainment, like raking the rotting pits from a decorative peach tree that dropped its inedible bounty into the too tall Korean Grass outside your bedroom window too late in the summer months to quench the stench with rain and too early to hope for mercy from a baking sunlight.

I’d prefer to be irrevocably cheerful like my heroes the 3 Lamas: Dali, Thich and Pema whose combined wisdom has diminished greater suffering in my own heart by showing me how, rather than just telling me to "suck it up"; however wise, these recommendations still fall short of impeding the misery i continue to inflect on haters worldwide. Ironically each time i raise my weapon of words in the name of justice against oppressors of every stripe and walk of life, i find myself face-to-face with both barrels of my own enmity. In an honest effort to transfigure my rage into creativity, i have submitted scripts on spec for weekly weakly sardonic morality plays modeled on early TV Dramas i.e. “How to Bomb Yemen & Make It Look Like It Was Famine’s Fault” (HTBY&MILLIWFF) · all i get in reply from the boy wonders in Hollywood is a form letter asking who the fuck is “Famine”?

I think it could be from the confusion of opening a new network so close to arraignments and other irregularities from sacking a nation and getting caught with your dick in the Ballot Box. If Herr _rumpf was as smart as he declares himself to be, ________what then¿ how much different is he than you are or i? It pains me to get this far, or close to my own demise and find little or no compassion for a person seemingly devoid of feelings for others. Yet how much different than he am i? If i find delight in his downfall - a fall as pathetic as the skinned knees of any child who knows the embarrassment of having fallen face first in front of not just those from whom one seeks comfort, but an entire planet poised with spittle dripping from their fangs to rejoice in your ______failure - who's the unfeeling beast, _rumpf or i?

Man, like i am not, or have not been him at some point in my own tragi-comedy of breath on earth. I don’t know what the answer is; i know as certain as i sit here drawing my next breath that dj _rump could live a 1,000 generations and never comprehend what i am trying to discover about my own self in this paragraph, yet that conviction does not absolve me from trying, while conversely empowers me more than any victory i may have ever known by battling and prevailing over the darkness with which his oh-so-sad vision of existence has blinded him, and seemingly so much of the world. Editorial ASIDE: I am searching for a younger, svelte woman with a loving tongue who cares very little about any approval i may bestow, yet values more than my family of birth what small contribution my relentless but seemingly intact loving heart might yet render tender service to her that she alone seems to see within the darkness that i am becoming. ¿Are we having fun yet? 

jts 08/11/2020 

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071120 - Extinction Chronicles ·

Life is good when calling the ducks to shelter is the high point of your day - don’t believe me, try it yourself. So the lullaby begins and our covid weary planet rests its head to a troubled sleep while the barely concealed ignorance of fear-fueled hatred crawls back under the nearest solid squalor to fashion pustules of fetid rancor to maim and wither limbs until the pertro-nazi-borg can install pre-singularity-android responsive limbs to the pathetic zombies of socially engineered hate-wraiths wandering without a Corporate North Star to guide their mincing, but resolute Goose Steps to the next “Reichstag Fire” - Fuck you Mr. Buffett, i’m sure you’re a very nice-a-guy, but fuck you for your cowardly comedy japing for your Omaha homies about your “ah shucks, t’weren’t all that” shuck and jive. I’ve seen orphan artists on the streets of Oaxaca with more game than you proclaim.

But this is now: “A time of healing; reconciliation and good-deed-doing, while the same capital hoarded in off-shore mountains of money destroying a planet for the enrichment of a handful continues, just without the constant, “ WE’RE DOING YOU - AND THERE’S FUCK ALL YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT” trilling on Twitter, because now the voice you hear is a DNC sponsored “public utility in service of humanity” - ¿right? ·

The challenge remains, how to guide old people to safety where young people can hear them recount a life prior to the “screen.” There have been 11 storms directly across the coast i live on in the past 6 weeks; logic dictates this exacerbated pattern will increase in the years to come and all the well wishing of visionary foreign investment, nor sand-bagging grit of a DNA strand born of heinous ecological cruelty of the gene pool, nor simple common decency born of an enlarged world view by an enthusiastic but “experience vs blog” bonus points based consideration of human growth for our species remains no more than a petri-dish of social engineering bullet-points in some too, too smarmy swarm of “ideation” by a class of techno-nobility long since rendered flaccid and effete by their own hubris.

It would seem as my fingers fly searching for meaning in a world that would entertain d._rump attempting to dismantle eons of democratic tradition while covid_19 choked the larynx of weak and muted windpipes worldwide - the minions of order and profit are guiding us most benevolently to a comfortable demise depending on our own particular brand of ecological or religious torment slated for the “excitement” channel at that date and time for perfect “social engineering” keystroke-campture-impact. Laugh if you must - i just witnessed 4 years of naked aggression by a “water boy” for the ‘shot caller’ of the ruling class who doesn’t apparently possess cajones sufficient to say for the record ¿“t’was i who murdered the conceit of your democracy; whaddya gonna do - sue me?”

I’d like to sue, but without class action revenues on deposit, the shyster lawyers, i bounced elbows with in the Superior Courthouse of Los Angeles won’t even acknowledge that dead-people’s money is sacred; how the fuck am i going get them to acknowledge $gazillions of potential revenue for fraud claims against ‘merican nazi potentates not yet charged, much less dislodged from the “Department of Justice.” SCOTUS fumigation alone won’t begin until January, much less arraignments and due dates for the plaintiffs. ‘Remember, technology is wise and way ahead of the curve, so if you have questions about whether your grandchild’s tumor is “Agro, or Petro” in nature, consult your MAGA representative in the nearest just-moved-Boutique-Business site Mini-Mall-in-Default whose electric bills reflect a 24-hour shredder having bee recently actively destroying records.   

jts 07/11/2020 

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061120 - Extinction Chronicles

Tomorrow is 5 days ’til my monthly visa renewal where i happily spend all i gain from my 66 years as a ‘merican citizen - though whatever i have “gained” was given in good faith while young and stupid to a government now owned by corporate overlords too cowardly to represent at a time of planetary upheaval. If Capitalism is so great, why is it that that the bulk of all the political investment is simply “junk email” which i could accumulate as easily for nothing by subscribing to bezos-zukee-gates-Apple.com¿? that is a question. The funniest meme this morning introduced the new “world leader” - Donald Biden ·

Why am i not laughing? there is much hype about the gender wisdom of the feminine, yet it is the republican shrew/Karen who has upended the 2020 election cycle. Is there truth about the “Handmaid’s Tale” that men nor women of our epoch are not willing to face? I D K, i’ve ignored the hype and only just now informed myself of the plot line - a plot line as old as the “Stepford Wives” or more accurately Emily Dickinson’s repulsion for the literary tradition of her land of birth. George Elliot beat them all to the punch and declared war on the patriarchy emerging during the “industrial revolution” better understood as McConnell’s tongue fucking of the ruling class.

Forgive me, and not for my vulgarity, for we live in times where men who ought to be pissed on are applauded for fictional candor, yet other more candid voices are shamed publicly for what the corporate "vote brokers" were certain would result in “solidarity” with the masses but only muddied the waters already sullied by billions of $”moolah” promised from the gates of heaven, sort of like the “fatted calf” of old. How many times will the people of planet earth get conned by a handful of charlatans promising “ever better returns” if only .  .. ¿? i suspect many, based solely on the number of “cons” i’ve married coupled with my relentless determination to “love” at all costs.

I do not understand the mystery of existence and find each waking day more mysterious than the  last - that is my good fortune, my better good luck is that i have no idea what constitutes your success. Just this afternoon, the universe allowed me to translate that ignorance into a lesson · i was feeling depleted and cornered by the rain, my mold soaked walls were closing in on me, yet from the porch i was able to greet Comrade Baha, the farmer’s wife. Though absorbed with a task at the time, she gave me hearty greeting while we aped our well-wishes for each. Her apparent task was setting a pin between a cut on tree limb segment and a joint that from where i stood was an exact outline of the face of the “Anteater.” Our sign-language conversation and the passing rain squall interrupted a better understanding; i’ll be curious to learn if my anthropomorphic fantasy was close?

This now the next day and my 5th paragraph, just like witnessing the regenerative creativity of my ancient family neighbor friends, tenuous - it occurred to me that a better idea for me to learn the language might be to pay - solid money · to the neighbor children for tutoring me in the language, a win-win proposition however unorthodox. Remember i have just roused myself from my Urside hibernation and am struggling more to hear what it is i admire about you, than what you could possibly approve of me how little that might be - unless you have demonstrated yourself as sexually precocious, but left out the parameters of your “terms of endearment.” In some cases, i’ve lept continents to learn your meaning, while with other muddy ponds, i am content to make discrete inquiries and either drawing more near depending on how you treat me, or vanishing in a haze of, “¿did he just say that?” mixed in with BD’s better come on, “i’ll look at you until my eyes grow blind.” get a grip people, ain’t love grand ?

jts 06/11/2020 

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051120 - Extinction Chronicles ·

Lao Tzu was a fucking genius without whose presence on earth, our world would likely have been vastly more miserable and the odds of our kind’s survival much slimmer, My Ma - not so much · personally i hold her in high esteem and value the toughness she beat into my tender soul, however much that same lesson rendered her deaf to the love in my heart i hold for her closest amongst all the luminous loves i’ve managed to entertain in my wayward journey to death. The rain has been relentless for 24+  hours and the most accurate predictor of weather patterns has disappeared from my certainly "socially engineered screen." I believe that the digital ovelord yutz’s who put _rump in office are running scared, and that the “investment wizards” imported to where i live in a SEA nation to teach the ignorant, but the highly disciplined surplus labor pool from its epoch past how to really “capitalize,” are jumping ship like rats off of the sinking MAGA-Ship-Of-State - or so my fear describes · i've been wrong before, ask anyone who says they know me.

I liked it better carving stone - each day ended with some measure of depletion, either from the stone, and/or my own physical endurance. Not much different from the act of running which like my idol “Forrest Gump” allowed for a legitimacy from striding to follow the tide tables of Santa Monica Bay to determine the optimum times for running on a flat shoreline at low tide; just now through my rain soaked kitchen window, i witnessed an unknown neighbor dragging off, by the scruff of their neck, loads of the same ducks which had days, or hours earlier been amongst voices i storm greeted in passing - bon appetite, mes amis · (I raised a hatchling duck in Kindergarten circa, 1960 and value highly the memory.)

Yet none of this discourse obviates the need for discussion as to how do we live together free of rancor and in support for each of our possible futures. Already in these past two paragraphs i’ve maligned and incited intellectual violence against: my mother, all the romantic loves of my short time on earth; the CEOs of a multinational technology companies, and countless unnamed but equally maligned employees; investment wizards; an ignorant but trainable population, and this is all within two previous paragraphs of one whose ostensible purpose for chronicling is to propagate peace on earth - forgive me, for i know not what i do.

And still the fucking rain pours unabated much like my sexual proclivities mutate unrelenting. How fucking sad when all i really want to be is cuddled and assured that everything is going to be okay. “Reaction formation” dictates the way to make that happens is to make it happen for others - most especially my family. They, i feel, wish to “push a pause button” i don’t possess, while i’m searching for the circuit breaker that frees me from any hope of belonging that i’ve learned is not part of this iteration of my reality. However, as part of that pact of peace, i must forgive all pain that resides within my own skin and to somehow mend and give vitality to people who, i for my lifetime have experienced the dullest and most senseless ache of not caring · i refuse to not care. 

So fuck you all, now you know the secret of my private wound; nor will i surrender, for i am the rhizome Herr Jung alluded to and which Master Tzu has guided into existence for countless generations. I cannot say what i do is correct or incorrect, i can only do and hope my heart remains in service to your well being knowing nothing about you or your ambitions. It is not my place to decide if you are or not a benefit - that choice remains to you alone. The best i can do is suck on the smallest measure of poison that aids my death but keeps my mind clear. I pray you find something closer to the cabbages Master de Montaigne grew to greet his voiceless demise and thank the stars for my capacity to link letters to words to string sentences in my vain hope for understanding between you and the love you find next to you.

 

jts 05/11/2020 

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