“Everyone has a right to become disillusioned at their own pace.” – Dr. Freckles
Maybe tomorrow …
Maybe tomorrow I will learn to fly, so high in the sky that I multiply and become like whiskey …
Maybe tomorrow I find a hidden tunnel to that magical beyond place, where frolicking monkeys sell you cigarettes and hookers … maybe …
Maybe tomorrow I invent love-sauce, and become like Ron Jeremy, as if I had the super power of total bone control and access … and maybe I marry a porn star wife … and maybe the marriage ends in divorce.
Maybe tomorrow I eat brisket with an old friend, and we talk about pistol nuts and french fry cream and albino elk. And maybe it’s important.
Maybe I will soon find the love of my life, and marry her in a meadow, and bury her next to the others, maybe? Maybe if I’m bad, right?
Maybe we get the FRANKLIN STYLE merge-tune in the coming weeks, when harmonic energy attains 5 levels of scale … and there’s pie. Maybe.
Maybe next week we will see new kinds of crispy chicken sandwiches, and this will trigger further crispy chicken wars and riots … and from this will be born a new sense of respect … maybe.
Maybe the oceans are dying …
Maybe I shambled out of apedom yesterday …
Maybe every Charlton Heston movie was true …
Why didn’t we build an ARMY of Charlton Heston robots? – we could have … we SHOULD have … maybe.
Maybe we did land on the Moon a few times, and then we forgot how we did it for half a century, as we spun tales of “singularity” and “super tech” … except when it comes to Space bro … less than 1000 have been there … think. Maybe “space” is bullshit.
Maybe my woman cheated on me with Dennis, and maybe Dennis is younger and hotter … but Krystal, you said you LOVED ME forever … forever is longer than 3 years Krystal. I love you … come back to me baby.
Maybe soon, perhaps within a year, I will travel to the mountains of Dysteria, and feed upon cumpus bread and tiggly wine. My garments will be made of silk and showered and poured upon by the gentle rains of spring, as the figures of disdainful regret hunt me and haunt me to the end, to push me onward to the blue star of destiny … perhaps THEN I will find my true love, hidden in the shadows. She will have crabs.
Maybe in an hour or two I’ll find the lost charms of DELMORDOS … and my male strug-levels will go through the ROOF … which means I have to move to the Jersey Shore and become a ja-brony … eat corn nuggets filled with anabolic steroids … power boost my blood with unknown things we dare not speak of … I think soon.
Maybe in about 2 weeks aliens will arrive from planet TOOBA, and with them will come the great discoveries of the galactic elite – carbonated fear drinks and used cigarette butts will be their bounty. I will gaze upon their sleek and greasy style, as the mileage provides hag energy, and the elf was to trod nowhere, and the heralds of chaos warn of coming storms and other crappy stuff … maybe. Maybe some kind of JRR TOLKIEN bullshit …
Maybe when the sun turns black and the clouds become acrid and sorrowful, I will GO to the Stingo Priests who sojourn near Sequim. They will share stories of adventure and piracy and lost pimps from Vancouver Island who do not understand the desire for “Thai food and craft beer”. Their generous offerings of thought are rejected, and I cast upon their visage a gaze of dynamite fury – and their lost memories are regained, as a lead pipe hits them on the back of their nasty heads. Very soon this will happen.
Maybe I’ll start lifting weights … get really fit and have those washboard abs … find myself a brunette kind of baby and marry her and move to the woods to have our fill of carnal bliss. She leaves me for Yurg the Archer, and they hunt beaver near the swamps of Krelm … and that would make me sad, probably really sad.
Maybe the STAR WARRIORS of Hollywood have x-wing fighters and millennium falcons and large imperial walkers … they shall reign in infamy as the LA tigers seek diesel fumes, and the ingenue rioters have nothing for them waiting, and no new livery apparel to wear to the cowboy weddings and vampire funerals … sure.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll stop doing crack … I’ll stop walking the street, looking for land-wax and opening up to random prostitutes and totally self aware alley thugs …
Maybe I’ll make ape-pudding for dinner, and I’ll sit in my cubby and meditate on camper style life changes and various forms of worms that will dig into my brain and infect me with pain … and the heat-chills from the weird residuals left over from other dying flesh … sure.
Maybe you can pack a wound with broken glass and sand and metal shavings and vodka … maybe it gets infected and you end up with some monstrous thing growing on you, with greedy eyes and lustful spirit. In days you are covered in boils and roiling with the fevers of a million diseases … but you don’t die, nature will not allow it. Maybe you get better and learn to surf … and this would be nice.
Maybe in a few days I’ll start fishing for something … I’ll grab a pole and some line and a lure … I’ll stand frozen upon the pier, looking out upon the rustic seas, imagining great creatures that luck down below and are so saddled with their own contentious dismay … I am aggrieved to know that twilight life still swims there, and feeds off the poison of the world. And I can stand and breathe … and drink jug slurry … maybe.
Maybe they’ll find the groodol soon – it will be tasty and sweet and neat and come from the bottom of the Pacific … seen post Fukushima … it’s happy and nice, our new style crab meat … one big red eye, it cannot die.
Maybe I build lasers designed to save whales …
Maybe I take that trip to Toledo, the one I’ve been putting off …
Maybe I join the GRONKIS LORDS or the WEST SIDE HOOLIES and do the jig with REBAR and pillow cases filled with d-cell batteries … sure.
I was born in the time of the razor-bats. These were bats, that carried razors, they drove Mercedes, they had the ladies …
I was born when skul-rings ruled, and everyone ate paste and gruel, their moms carried a chainsaw gun, just for fun, they’d hunt the genhdoo-tribes lurking in the forest, that was my time.
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 …
