dereliction
...not necessarily my own, though there may be one of those proto-cinco-axioms (axia? wtf declension is that and did I get that far in Latin I...the answer can be had for the princely sum of...tell me something good. Not something YOU think is good, that may not be good enough for her majesty. Something I think is good.
I never know what these are going to be until I hear them, so I can't exactly go out to the mall and look one up like a piece of dope. Someone from another planet or out of a more perfect soul than I am able to struggle toward, in between the looking up the pieces of mall dope the dope pieces of mall and the going to work and the coming home, (which all abrade the extremities a little, but that too, too, shall less solid any minute now...{
Now?;
} and when the extremities are gone, I shall turn the inner I to see if my head will also have been considered an extremity in which case I shall have nothing left to chuckle with nor make wry faces and how fortunate indeed one might think oneself if one had a self left to think with in this instance, >ahchkhm <
,might find it easier to be hearing something good. Maybe the secret lies in...shit, maybe the secret LIES.
Maybe the best thing that could happen to me would be to have a stroke and lose only every scrap of English I ever had. It gets more and more difficult to find anyone who has endless hours to spend preferably on linguistic badminton, semiotic off-road croquet, and the dire business of hammering out the FAIR and the UNFAIR.
Surprised? shouldn't be. This sort of thing usually requires ***********************************COMMITMENT********************************************************************com-mitmen-t******************
*****which I am forced to conclude(because I am not entirely bereft of the obvious) I dread to a degree usually considered unseemly in a person of my approximate age and gender.
I actually did 'have' someone just like that; it was such a pity that we couldn't do something old-fashioned and sensible and European and let the thing that was Our Marriage grow on, and go about our own individual business also. By the time a person is old enough to know what they want, if anything, or at least what they DON'T want; by the time they have a statistical sampling of themselves and what can and cannot be empirically expected of them by any known sentient creature; by the time they have finally learned how not to cry, it's almost to close to call how close it is to too late to find anyone else who could reasonably be expected to have any inherent stake in the rest of that peculiar self's life and the unique outfill of their existence. . .For fifteen minutes, on the street, never to be seen or heard from again, no problem. Else? well, I have been on a forced march to the best-read-easiest way to do these things, for as long as i can remember, no, since I was about six . I stand on one foot, corrected, the other foot wrapped around the opposing amazing chunk of human lower leg. Why do they call it a 'calf'? Mooooo? I don't think so.
..I am terribly sorry: i seem to have mislaid my parenthesis. Someone of a more perfect soul than I would be there to *hear* the goodness even if it didn't relate to them.
I cannot for the life of me figure out why all the 'spiritual' widgets we merehums construct revolve around ABSOLUTE PRIMACY OF THE SACRED SELF or UTTER SUBSUMPTION/NEGATION OF THE REDUNDANT (and no longer supported except by subscription) SELF.
Must everything we don't know be inagined in extremes? Would heaven be so bad if it were ordinary, with defeat and gossip and glory and some greek word for all things being else equal that I don't know but will ask my brother? Would nothingness be so desirable if one wasn't somehow imagining oneself processional into it, long filmy robes and all?
More germane: why do I even spend time on this shit?
well, I gauss. degauss, I guess I'm almost done here.
I don't *know* what's going to happen. I am not one of those lucky people in whom belief is the same thing as knowing. Evidence! Evidence!
EXHIBITS:
A. The four-color map problem.
B. In a hundred years who will care? Not me, I fervently hope.
C. The creature, crouched on cliff's edge, red eyes glaring patiently..
D. My jawbone, not asslike enough (quite) to slay myself or anyone else with...yet. Give me time. I'll take it anyway, same as you would.
E. One transient supernatural experience with entity(-ies) of unknown provenance in traditional Catholic garb and the resultant actuarial tables; not available at present owing to having been subpoenaed for analysis and subpoenaed to prevent analysis at one sameness- don't ask me, I do not have an explanation prepared. I will make one up on the spot, of course, at the slightest provocation: it may even be true. How will we know?
Maybe it's that WE won't know a damned thing. The burden of sentience again: if you people would just let me be in my own natural ambiguity I don't know nor do I really care how it would affect you, but I would certainly be a lot more At Home. Don't mistake- the extremes are there, but how else are you going to know when to choose another crayon?
ah well. One thing my life as a masochist has taught me or perhaps it was that about life which taught me to be a masochist is:
when you stop struggling, and accept, it doesn't hurt nearly as much.
Meine Empress, written I, moven I on, moven I off.
Poo-tee-weet?
I never know what these are going to be until I hear them, so I can't exactly go out to the mall and look one up like a piece of dope. Someone from another planet or out of a more perfect soul than I am able to struggle toward, in between the looking up the pieces of mall dope the dope pieces of mall and the going to work and the coming home, (which all abrade the extremities a little, but that too, too, shall less solid any minute now...{
Now?;
} and when the extremities are gone, I shall turn the inner I to see if my head will also have been considered an extremity in which case I shall have nothing left to chuckle with nor make wry faces and how fortunate indeed one might think oneself if one had a self left to think with in this instance, >ahchkhm <
,might find it easier to be hearing something good. Maybe the secret lies in...shit, maybe the secret LIES.
Maybe the best thing that could happen to me would be to have a stroke and lose only every scrap of English I ever had. It gets more and more difficult to find anyone who has endless hours to spend preferably on linguistic badminton, semiotic off-road croquet, and the dire business of hammering out the FAIR and the UNFAIR.
Surprised? shouldn't be. This sort of thing usually requires ***********************************COMMITMENT********************************************************************com-mitmen-t******************
*****which I am forced to conclude(because I am not entirely bereft of the obvious) I dread to a degree usually considered unseemly in a person of my approximate age and gender.
I actually did 'have' someone just like that; it was such a pity that we couldn't do something old-fashioned and sensible and European and let the thing that was Our Marriage grow on, and go about our own individual business also. By the time a person is old enough to know what they want, if anything, or at least what they DON'T want; by the time they have a statistical sampling of themselves and what can and cannot be empirically expected of them by any known sentient creature; by the time they have finally learned how not to cry, it's almost to close to call how close it is to too late to find anyone else who could reasonably be expected to have any inherent stake in the rest of that peculiar self's life and the unique outfill of their existence. . .For fifteen minutes, on the street, never to be seen or heard from again, no problem. Else? well, I have been on a forced march to the best-read-easiest way to do these things, for as long as i can remember, no, since I was about six . I stand on one foot, corrected, the other foot wrapped around the opposing amazing chunk of human lower leg. Why do they call it a 'calf'? Mooooo? I don't think so.
..I am terribly sorry: i seem to have mislaid my parenthesis. Someone of a more perfect soul than I would be there to *hear* the goodness even if it didn't relate to them.
I cannot for the life of me figure out why all the 'spiritual' widgets we merehums construct revolve around ABSOLUTE PRIMACY OF THE SACRED SELF or UTTER SUBSUMPTION/NEGATION OF THE REDUNDANT (and no longer supported except by subscription) SELF.
Must everything we don't know be inagined in extremes? Would heaven be so bad if it were ordinary, with defeat and gossip and glory and some greek word for all things being else equal that I don't know but will ask my brother? Would nothingness be so desirable if one wasn't somehow imagining oneself processional into it, long filmy robes and all?
More germane: why do I even spend time on this shit?
well, I gauss. degauss, I guess I'm almost done here.
I don't *know* what's going to happen. I am not one of those lucky people in whom belief is the same thing as knowing. Evidence! Evidence!
EXHIBITS:
A. The four-color map problem.
B. In a hundred years who will care? Not me, I fervently hope.
C. The creature, crouched on cliff's edge, red eyes glaring patiently..
D. My jawbone, not asslike enough (quite) to slay myself or anyone else with...yet. Give me time. I'll take it anyway, same as you would.
E. One transient supernatural experience with entity(-ies) of unknown provenance in traditional Catholic garb and the resultant actuarial tables; not available at present owing to having been subpoenaed for analysis and subpoenaed to prevent analysis at one sameness- don't ask me, I do not have an explanation prepared. I will make one up on the spot, of course, at the slightest provocation: it may even be true. How will we know?
Maybe it's that WE won't know a damned thing. The burden of sentience again: if you people would just let me be in my own natural ambiguity I don't know nor do I really care how it would affect you, but I would certainly be a lot more At Home. Don't mistake- the extremes are there, but how else are you going to know when to choose another crayon?
ah well. One thing my life as a masochist has taught me or perhaps it was that about life which taught me to be a masochist is:
when you stop struggling, and accept, it doesn't hurt nearly as much.
Meine Empress, written I, moven I on, moven I off.
Poo-tee-weet?