Mr. Scrumbo, he’s our friend, mr. scrumbo knows the end
Got chapter one of BFW1 finished … hopefully I can keep up a pace of one chapter per week. It’s hard to say. Some people would look at my life and feel sad or disdain or hate … I have what I need, and some of the things I want … not perfect, but workable. Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face … your retirement plan, blumbo world, sucking fat for biodiesel …you could end up in the diesel.
The monkey-herpes infected my testicles because I was pooping on a honey bucket, and a driplet shot up and touched my nutt sack … and this is wrong
“It’s always a slow burn until it explodes.” – Dr. Freckles (Hemingway’s “how did I go broke”) These are big events, perhaps a 10,000 year event … Berlin, april, 1945 is where we are at … it’s “slow” until it’s not … desire for nature to be incremental and linear is not a rational argument … the slow burn is wishful thinking and last minute bargaining … at any time, right now, the system has a likelihood to go into multiple failure states … it can handle a few at a time, but not as many as are coming … and when that begins, everyone gets a lesson in discontinuous functions … Everyone I know is bargaining right now, in terms of the kubler-ross stages of grieving … denial, anger, bargaining … the core turning circle of American consciousness. Better get to depression soon, and then to acceptance.
2020/2021 as a “rehearsal” … what if all that nonsense was just a military style rehearsal, a simulation, to gather data for some FUTURE OPERATION that might not be fake … it might be real. Think uber / lyft … think data mining and modeling … complexity. As a military psyop it makes sense, but at a deeper level the reason might have been more than “how do we keep people busy”, it might also have been “how do we know what they will do” – and “they” in this context are the little people, us.
“Be brave enough to be kind.” – Dr. Freckles
Superman / Stalin / Man of Steel / “nice stalin” / learning / and the desire to be ruled. Super heroes are generally bad messages … childish notions
My time travel ideas and a Hawking Sphere …
Good day on Friday, got paid, not stressing about what’s coming … you shouldn’t either. It could be horrible, probably will be, and many of us are not going to make it … so what? “life is hard” has been the invisible tattoo on every living thing since the beginning …
So I’ve finished a couple days of work, haven’t really had to tutor much yet but I’m expecting my first victims to show up soon …
I’m tutoring and mentoring high school students, as prep for a career as a teacher.
Been thinking on the fictional writing project – “BIG FOOT WAR ONE” – and the first chapter that will likely be a back story, context, for all the grievances and issues, the moral justification for the war, and the initial plans. I can imagine the raccoon folk and crow/raven folk and the orca whales joining forces – the crow will be indifferent and cynical, as they enjoy the tossed out McDonald’s garbage that must invariably cease once the war begins.
My goal is to write one chapter a week – to attempt two “normal” sort of podcasts about “what’s up” and one podcast, or two, per week, on a chapter/serial basis. Sure, some might not get the idea of the Sasquatch, the forest people, the Yeti or Wookie, coming down from the slopes of the hills, filled with rage and glory, smelling of venison and pain … but some will get it, and if I can tell a good story, people will connect.
My boss and her husband have a property they manage for campers, “glampers”, and she offered to let my brother and I stay there – me in a camper, my brother in his truck but safer from boondocking and cheaper than the parks. It’s a real break from the running from one place to another, the frenzied search for SOMETHING LIKE what I left behind in Utah. But there is no replacing my friends Beth and Justin, there is no replacing their dogs, especially Boomer … I cry a little less now when I think about him, but I still cry.
So am I still circling about the drain? – sure.
Do I have some “solid plan”? – it would depend upon how you defined the word “solid”. I have a plan, I think I might want to teach. It would be great if I could make my podcast work, but maybe I suck, maybe I suck because I refuse to simply “entertain”. Maybe I’ll suck less if I tell mostly stories, because the reality of the situation is horrifying, best case, medium case, likely case. And, I know we’re being lied to on a historic scale, and the thing they are lying about is not good – that’s putting it in mild terms. But we keep going, we keep hoping, we keep dreaming, and we endure.
I could have avoided much of the “sturm und drang” of the last 6 weeks if I’d been able to simply pause, somewhere, for a few weeks … to take a sense of things. It’s a nice luxury for some that they can pause without falling off the social radar, without being cast, thrown, into the seemingly perpetual darkness that is STREET HOMELESSNESS … and the hatred directed at you because you simply made one too many mistakes … sucks to be you. If you HATE the homeless and you live in a city? – your rude awakening hasn’t arrived, but it’s coming. We could have made different choices, we could have CHOSEN NOT to treat housing or shelter like a financialized product – but our system tossed us a crooked bone, and so many, irrespective of political affiliation, picked up the bone. Should we be surprised that there is a boiling mass of human suffering below our feet? Rumbling, shifting, shaking the ground? – no, don’t be surprised when they show up at your door, and the cops show up to tag your bodies 5 hours later.
Yet – I have a camper, with a space heater …
I have the nature that surrounds me, and the bigfoot folk looking out for me or observing me … who knows what the forest people do.
I have food and water …
I have a radio and a Bible and Jesus looking out for me …
I have a lot to be grateful for, and I’m trying to remember that too.
I have a slice – not the whole pizza, a part of it, and for me it’s enough to keep going.
MIND JOURNEY: forgotten caverns of Nordstrom’s
cleavage hustlers slink their way to the underwear department.
bold pricks buy their briefs from Jerry.
skleb-trolls wander the dusty way, talking up purses and handbags and wallets and departed friends lost at the Rack …
Hoglon is leader of the retail death cult, he feeds on boob-cheese, he makes a bayonet wedding.
Stugger-mugger jerk squirrel meat being sold near the coffee mugs, not far from the jabbering fools of fossil …
PF CHANG’S is GONE …
Mustard dog deacon’s are moving the juice for the crowded revelers, Orange Julius is being sued for ecoli
Get your parrot suit on sale, and spy the next fall’s fashion – it’s grey and worn and red and deadly.
Who knows … what’s next, what changes, where we will be at the end of 2023?
Who knows …
I desire an optimistic landing pad for my broken and dark soul, but what I’ll find are the KEEVUS-RATS and the old guard standing by the wall, letting in those chosen few who can submit to the power of the world. The old droghies sit at the table, eating their sausage mick-hoodles and discussing how many Vietcong they killed, so many decades ago. STYG-WARRIORS, talking colonoscopy and tumors and bronchitis and weird scars that none focus on for long.
Who is getting paid to take care of the bodies?
Where are they being taken?
When the old coot dies and the land is dead and the water has turned to blood, who knows, who cares?
I can take my corn scars and slather on the frungo-oils and carry myself about like some slab time king – not looking for the freeway or the hangman’s scaffold. I take my time crossing the byway, unconcerned and irrelevant to the movement of traffic. If I fall? – I hope a kind coyote feeds on my flesh, and then leaves something behind as a marker: “here lay a dead hobo, no one remembers, no one cares, everyone on the run, all refugees in a strange land of madness.
You took notice, HINDO-BOOG, when I stared into the abyss and saw my reflection in YOU. You tracked my actions and kept a journal, and there were too many entries and your pencil got dull.
You took notice when the AIR became metallic and the water smelled of aviation fuel and copper – in this there was a queer acceptance, if only the grey welcoming of those street crabs that can’t be stopped, only shunned.
STLEEG was muttering at the edge of the Clallam Transit Center, talking to his demon master – exchanging ancient signals indecipherable to normies.
KORN-GOL is arguing his cases on the 50 BUS. He is laying out the arguments, appealing to the supreme justice “fuckers … fucking casino … they took it … it’s gone” …
HAMLIN-TOURISTS depart the ship from BOON TOWN to CRUSKY – all the skein-cats change names and await the final banishment.
And it’s … who knows.
Glazed bear spice and tryouts for the stripper bar off of Carlsdale Drive. Hank has his pick of special toys to use, and then sends the rump to the toaster where they can shake their bags and watch the greasy fisherman whack-off.
I checked my baggage with Fritz at the RITZ and built a temple of disgrace outside the chapel. The corporal beat his drum and the 5 cohorts brought up the rear, as the dynasty of lost street people marched on to S’compton and Grinken Town and Old Helbridge AVE. No amount of fury stopped it …
This is just a general rant concerning “those whom the gods are about to destroy they first make mad”, and what now … and the piano stops … but the harmonica is okay?
