I quite imagine her in lace
Prowling about her house, pace
After pace.

What creatures paced that place
While yet it was a long-ago forest?
The now-faded echoes of wolves were
Then rumored quite the chorus.

Oh, down the banister which was once a branch,
the pitter-patter of marmots certainly did occur.
And ferrets, no doubt, chased their tails
In a subterranean labyrinth
(where now sits the washer/dryer)
Into a whirling swirl.

And squirrels, where the living room now is,
Probably zagged when they should have zigged.
And the dining room was a killing stone
Where a cougar once toothed blood and feasted big.

Aye, most like that cougar she now skulks about her built haven,
And though  adorned in her lace negligee quite sheer,
A great mistake would any critter make
To assume her to be a mere harmless, innocent dear.

Nay, she prowls awaiting the moment of action...
And to leap!
She didn’t put on that sexy negligee
Simply to go to sleep.

I was borne to thrive under a matriarchy
With feelings as a child drifting ever so softly
Deeper into the realm of the feminine
And with a heart always a’flutter
To the utterly enticing  beauty of mother.

Like Mau’dib upon Arrakis was I as a youth
so precociously inclined towards the Bene Gesserit mind
that woman culled me emotionally, spriritually,
calling me ”the bright young cutie”:
--and accepting me practically as one of their own kind.
 
Yet the male world would not let me be:
Constantly tempering, prodding, challenging me
To flex and harden, to bite the apple
And go down on Eve like a fucking bronco
thus assuring expulsion from the Goddess’ Garden.

But a true champion of neither world would I grow to be
For I played both right down the middle:
A facile, simultaneous engagement of both equally.
Effectively hermaphroditic would I become
In the true Buddhist sense, half-monk, half-nun.

Does the world have a circus for spiritual oddities?
Souls half-baked in two separate psychic ovens?
Half Gingerbread Girl and Bread Pudding Boy?
Metaphorically endowed with a Barbie’s tits and a Ken’s….what?
A circus where, while entertaining the world, we can find our own?

Or is Life just again half the profile…awaiting Death—the other?
For from that which we came, shall we not return?
And is that not an otherworld archetype, Father-Mother?
The dream beyond the sleep.
The quest beyond bequests.

In response to a challenging request from woodnymph...This is where I live...

But this is how I live:

...tools of the trade: sun, satellite uplink. amd suds. 

At first, I thought this was a display of exorbitance and flamboyance.  But I now realize that this is essentially a pursuit of excellence:

Garage wines are the in-thing in Bordeaux. In the past, big estates were characterised by the brands they made on their large tracts of land. Largely the brainchild of Rolland, garage wines adopt a Burgundian approach: you select a minute piece of soil and throw a small fortune at it. You pare down the yields to nothing but a few healthy grapes and vinify them in spanking new oak barrels, then charge a king's ransom for a few oversubscribed bottles.

—Giles MacDonogh, "Depardieu with a nose for glamour," The Financial Times (London), May 4, 2002

Somewhere in central Ohio there is an actual log cabin on a forested hilltop, my brother's cabin, with a year's stock of supplies in the basement pantry.  When I first walked into it and saw the array of goods on the shelves, I thought I was in a grocery store and looked around for a shopping basket.  Shelf after shelf of non-perishables abound.

Did somebody say *hideway* ?!

My brother built, finished, and furnished the cabin by himself, beyond the basic assistance of having heavy equipment come in to excavate and lay the base foundation.

What kind of man would spend a great part of three and a half years on an isolated hilltop alone living the  life of a master crafstman?

An ex-Ohio State football player, Army Special Forces communications specialist, SWAT Team Sergeant, law school graduate--and--and--ex-Ohio State Fencing Team member whom, though I was a teenager entirely untrained in the foil at the time, I could often invent a new move to beat! (sorry, brother, you do every else so well that I had to throw my one shining moment in ) 

*wakes from dream where he was coerced to join an underworld gang and fend drugs*

*glances down at crazy post below.  figures: crazy post, crazy dream.*

...well, I'm back to anticpating the next terrorist move and playing with java .class files.

I rarely just stumble upon things on the internet.  Yet...searching for one off-colored  related item, I was led totally unexpected to this: The Definitive Penis Size Survey.  You mean...there's a limit??  LOL

I spent much too much time canvassing this site--(certainly seeking the cross-link to the Definitive Vagina Size Survey???!)--but, no--I didn't fill out the survey (I didn't have a yard stick ).  By the way, in case your interested, I estimate my body-type as between a 7 and an 8.

But now back to my original search...

Holly took my left hand and curled the tips of my thumb and a finger to just meet and touch each other to make a ring.  "That's how big around your dick is, sexy"  she whispered.   Then, with her green eyes growing wider and her lips pouting wordlessly, she stretched my thumb and either my middle or ring finger apart, gestured at their expanse, and continued: "And this is how long your dick is." 

She gigled, said "you're huge" and then teased me along: "So what you been doing with all that?"  

I paused, reflecting upon recent non-events, and confessed:  "Nothing.  For the longest time.  And that fact, and the fact that an erotic creature like you has taken an interest in me, is probably why I'm so huge."  And though my libido was thus lusciously complimented , I pressed on to challenge her: "But how do you really know?" 

"Really know what?", she responded while lightly stroking my wrist.

"How will you ever really know--beyond your hand-crafted estimation--how big I am unless you experience it for yourself?  Is that somewhere...maybe...you want to go...?...", ...

...Well, you get my drift.  Anyway, my internet search was for which finger--the middle or ring--is the proper one for making such an estimation of length as did Holly.   I guess, maybe, I wasn't really paying enough attention to my very own fingers in her hand at the time. Anyway...

*returns to Google search*

*modifies search words of:

"measuring penis size finger thumb"

to "mastering tight moist vagina"

but doesn't hit submit*

Yesterday, I gave you a glimpse of my mind.  Today, should you make it to the third and final level, catch a view of my once (and future?) afterwork fantasy...no, not her!  What's she's holding.

(note: once one level is completed, click for the next)

Can't see it in xanga?  Go here.

Let's dance, put on your red shoes and dance the blues
Let's dance, to the song they're playin' on the radio

Let's sway, you could look into my eyes
Let's sway, under the moonlight, this serious moonlight
  
   --David Bowie

...only Bowie could ever had sung about the "serious moonlight".  No one else ever has..ever probably will.

But if the moonlight's so serious, how much more serious must the sunlight, which that moon is reflecting, be?

Question: If Adam and Eve were the first, then does that mean that their children engaged in incest?

Answer: The Bible tells us that Adam and Eve were the first man and woman and Cain was their first son. His wife must therefore have been his sister. This seems strange (or worse!) to us but we know that that is where the human race all started, and this incest was under God's control and guidance.

  --ChristianAnswers.net

Well, Adam is said to have lived 130 years before the birth of his third child Seth.  During those first 130 years, there was only one woman, Eve, and three men—Adam, Cain, and, the most able-bodied of them all, Abel.  All of Adam's un-named daughters born were born after Seth’s birth.   My guess is that for the first century or so of human existence, Cain and Abel were not just holding their breath waiting for the birth and maturity of their first true sister (daughter of Adam) but that Eve was doing all of them and that Cain murdered Abel to win more of Eve’s resultingly less-divided attention.  Maybe Eve was even more partial to Abel’s able-bodied needs (he was younger, too) than Cain’s and Cain simply got jealous.  In any case, Eve was said to view Seth, the third child, as “Abel’s replacement”.  Why did Abel need “a replacement”?  Because Eve, after Cain was banished, didn’t want to revert to the unimagination of non-incestuous monogamy?! 

After Cain was banished, he was given a special mark that caused others to fear him.  In the book Demian by Hermann Hesse, the character Demian offers an alternative explanation for the “Mark of Cain” as being one of distinction that made other people cautiosuly fearful and respective rather than one of shame that brought chastisement upon the bearer.  The truth is that Cain went forth into the land of Nod, built a town, took a wife, and lived a pretty damn good life ever after.  But where did Cain’s wife come from?  Was it a full sister born from sometime after Seth’s birth?  But how the hell would Cain ever meet any of his siblings once he had gone forth into the wilderness never to return?  My reasoning is that Cain’s wife was either his daughter with Eve or Abel’s daughter with Eve and that when "banished", he took this girl for a wife with him.  The Bible doesn’t mention such, but doesn’t exclude such either.  But it does logically exclude female offspring from Adam and Eve until such a late date as to make an available wife for the far-off wandering Cain a virtual impossibility.  Maybe Cain and Abel fought a fair duel over their first nubile, adolescently-emerging daughter-sister and Cain won!   He was the victor, was given a mark of distinction for his dominance, and set out with her to live long and prosper! 

And in America, we thought the Old West was wild—ha!

The vantage of the view below is from behind my laptop.  I was quite involved in blogging up to this very moment when I happened to glance beyond my laptop screen and discerned some sinister activity.  It appeared that someone was setting up a base of activity afar.  And it further appeared that they were facing squarely off with me.  Had I still been in the military, I'd probably have scrambled for immediate cover and called in an airstrike.  Or if I was an underworld operative, I might have hastily assembled my modular rifle with telescopic scope and taken them out myself.   And if I were a god like Thor, I would have summoned the heavens to strike them with lightning! But really, all I was doing was sitting there typing and drinking a beer--how innocent can you be?

Damn photographers.  Shoot me and I'll shoot back...

And, oh yeah, if you want a snapshot, cut out that candid crap.  I'd be more than happy to pose for you...

I just don't seem to have enough time today for everything I want to do.

...Worked on a web site this morning (for a friend of Darling32's), have painting on the east side to do this afternoon, have network cables to install and a network to put in a dental office on the west side this evening..."in between" I'd like to run in the cemetery, write some, and enjoy a brew...

..and then there's the matter of getting around to visit all of you! 

Well...I'm off.  And perhaps by the time that the earth has done a 180° ...

       I'll be back.

I think I've never been more alone. 

Which isn't bad.  Lots of good things can happen when you're alone.

Realizations.  Forgotten fascinations. Renewed sensitizations. 

Self-inventing wonderment.

The truth is: I'm never bored. Never been bored in all my life.

That which might and has tried to bore me with its fallacious pretense sucks Shakespeare's dusty death.

I'm almost like a good, the bestest, cop forever imagining, anticipating every yet uncommitted crime without ever committing one.  Or like a faithful soldier: forever committing to orders without ever imagining violating one.

Except I do and do not commit: I write.  I breach all bastions of corporate and national notions of intelligence by sharing.  And daring.  With you.

*Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question.*

So ask.

And may responses waft to you from all aspects of the universe upon the wings of imaginative enterprise.

There are times, now and then, when I’m out strolling about that I catch myself avoiding stepping upon cracks in the sidewalk.  (For real: I just came back from such a lunchtime walk.)  I realize at such times that I have unconsciously relapsed into the childhood game of “Step on a Crack”, a seemingly simple game where someone taunts: “Step on a crack—and break your mother’s back.”  Of course, my friends and I as children, upon being challenged, all then took immediate scrupulous care to avoid all the cracks—at least for a while.  But superstitious taunts, like IP packets (internet packets), apparently have their own TTL—“time to live”, so when the taunt grew “old” for us (i.e., we got bored with the game after a few minutes), it seemingly “wore off” and we thereafter paid it no-nevermind.

Actually, now that I think about it, this taunt may have been tantamount to an anti-superstition.  Not everyone breaks mirrors (for seven years bad luck)—or has the necessity of walking under a ladder—or is crossed along the way by a black cat.  But every kid would eventually step on a crack!  And guess what?  Only one in a hundred million would go home and find their mother’s back seemingly as a consequence (but we now understand as a coincidence) broken.  So stepping on cracks, as we all attempted to avoid but would all eventually succumb to, probably helped destroy our beliefs in the power of superstitions.

However, what interests me most about this game is the fact that mothers ostensibly could be so easily victimized—if not in fact, at least in taunt.  Clearly might not this game in its origin be the product of the darker side of a haughtily patriarchal society?  Could you ever imagine this diversion running actively rampant under a matriarchy?  Hell no!  Though they’d probably have an alternative version such as “Step on a crack and you’re mother will give you a whack”.

Or maybe the real energy of this superstition resided in the collective belief of oppressed mothers as an exploitable alibi of why their domestic work was so “back-breaking” : “Oh my, my little Johnny must be out there stepping on cracks…”

Here’s some other interpretations:

Do you remember the childhood phrase, "Step on a crack and break your mother's back?" This is an example of how small children achieve a sense of control when they are away from their mothers and fear abandonment.

from psyber square

Ill-fortune is said to be the result from stepping on a crack in the pavement. Present day society usually associates the superstition behind treading on cracks to the rhyme: "Step on a crack, break your mother's back" but the superstition actually goes back to the late 19th - early 20th Century and the racism that was prevalent in this period.
The original rhyming verse is thought to be "Step on a crack and your mother will turn black." It was also common to think that walking on the lines in pavement would mean you would marry a negro and have a black baby. (Apparently this superstition only applied to Caucasians and because of the rampant prejudice against black people, was considered an activity to avoid.)

from csicop

Wordless but not lost for words.

Unspeaking but not speechless.

If I had to face off with a gunslinger right now under an unrelenting sun, I'd be unhesitatingly resolute.  The only question would be not whether I'd be *feeling lucky*, but whether I'd be fast enough.

But if I were fortunate instead, there'd be no gunslinger at the end step of that rendevous, but more amazingly the blossom of a possible lover.  Then the question would not be whether I'd be fast enough, but whether I'd be *feeling lucky*.  Or would it be, as Arthur asks Merlin, "How to handle a woman?"

They say that *time will tell*.  Will it really?  Or do they tell us such things to appease us until we're lying in our not-fast-enough graves?

One thing I'm certain of: I'm very sure-footed.

Sometimes a “knowledge of a relationship” is not enough.  You must understand that great stories brew.   That rarely is the “intimacy of one” self-sufficient and equally rarely is there an intimacy of more than two.   Either theoretically or when you’re upon the highest of highs, the limit to intimacy’s unbounded.  Numbers just confound and no one is excluded.  But practically speaking, in this world so far, no can do.  Two.  First get it down with two.  Then spend your next life dwelling upon how to accrue.

Imagine all the people…

Imagine a graveyard filled with a commune of adult members all essentially lovers of one another…

Imagine such a commune pre-graveyard stricken…

I think we achieve proxies of greater intimacies, at least hints thereat, in our lives through instances of shared enjoyments.   All crying at the same heart-rendering scene in the same movie in the movie theater.  All reading the most worthy best-seller and being similarly awed.   All sharing in a common, uniting patriotism by fighting the same war.  Well, maybe never all.  But a great many.  certainly more than two.   We thus commit to intimate feelings for star-stirring and earth-shaking things, not in facing off with each other, but in experiencing the same surrogate at some level of imminence.  Even sunbathing thus serves as a form of purifying connectivity.  True: the photons that strike me can never strike you.  But we can all relate to each other through the blessing at the Source.  And even just walking the same earth brings us closer together than most anyone can usually ever imagine.  

What if, when you died, you found that all souls go to heaven.   But that heaven is filled with spirits from an (infinite minus one) number of other existent worlds.  And that as you wander and meet other souls, as timelessness goes by, you realize that your chances of ever running into another soul from Earth is unimaginably, unreally less than the subatomic division of an iota.  Then you reflect back and realize how intimate just walking the same earth with anyone, with everyone, really was.  And should you ever, against all odds, run into someone once earthbound, the ensuing intimacy would be so immediate and sweet that the most provocative sex that the greatest earthly lovers ever had wouldn’t be able to even begin to compete,  Ha!  And maybe, just maybe, the “lesser heaven” is never ever finding or coming upon another once-earthbound soul to merry-meet upon such a reunion, while the “greater heaven” is the serendipity of such an occasion at some point just short, at most, of eternity.

And imagine, oh my God, that just short of eternity, I finally meet you!

Again even.

Somebody here at work just mentioned that I looked totally “lost”.  I responded that I wasn’t, but might look so for having to deal with so many people here who apparently are.

Then I asked in return: “If everybody else in the world were lost, would you not by societal dynamics be so too?” 

That was too deep for him.  He merely laughed and shrugged it off (just as any other incognizant lost soul might do).

What. indeed, would it mean to claim knowledge of being *here--> X* while yet having no additional bearings or keys to external relationships?

"The _Ch'uan Teng Lu_ records a fascinating encounter between Tao-hsin and the sage Fa-yung, who lived in a lonely temple on Mount Niu-t'ou, and was so holy that the birds used to bring him offerings of flowers. As the two men were talking, a wild animal roared close by, and Tao-hsin jumped. Fa-yung commented, 'I see it is still with you!'--referring, of course, to the instinctive passion" (klesa) of fright. Shortly afterwards, while he was for a moment unobserved, Tao-hsin wrote the Chinese character for 'Buddha' on the rock where Fa-yung was accustomed to sit. When Fa-yung returned to sit down again, he saw the sacred Name and hesitated to sit. 'I see,' said Tao-hsin, 'it is still with you!' At this remark Fa-yung was fully awakened...and the birds never brought any more flowers."
 
--Alan W. Watts, The Way of Zen

Never lost, just lost (like the birds) in love with those who are.

I don't know nothing about *one year later*.  Ritualizers will make the most of it.  As will media mavens and news anal-ists.  But to me, *one year later* means the sun is one year closer to an extinction--that I'll almost certainly never humanly see.  Otherwise, one year later is simply a temporal bonus bestowed upon this impermanent longevity by eternity.

Yet we will watch out.  All vigilant 288 or so million of us Americans will watch out intently.  Those bastards will not surprise us again.  No brag, just fact. 

You ... -->addresssed to las terroristas<-- you want to attack?  We're waiting for you--come at him, or her, ...or me.  I'll take you down.  We'll swirl to the ground: One of me for every 10,000 of you asshole terrorist clowns.  Correct: I revoke your humanity.  In my evaluative hierarchy, being an asshole terrorist is equivalent to being a West Nile mosquito: *swat*.  With little thought.  Understand: As a terrorist murderer of innocents, we deem you to be gone, and our deeming, duly empowered,  shall bring your obliteration, one way or another, about.  That's a promise, not a taut.

And you -->addressed to the most souls of all<--, come at me me, too!  As I pray: 

... may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

 (cummings, of course)

The Joy of Fishes

by Chuang Tzu (250 B.C.)

Chuang Tzu and Hui Tzu
Were crossing Hao river
By the dam.

Chuang said:
"See how free
The fishes leap and dart:
That is their happiness,"

Hui replied:
"Since you are not a fish
How do you know
What makes fishes happy?"

Chuang said:
"Since you are not I
How can you possibly know
That I do not know
What makes fishes happy?"

Hui argued:
"If I, not being you,
Cannot know what you know
It follows that you
Not being a fish
Cannot know what they know."

Chuang said:
"Wait a minute!
Let us get back
To the orginal question.
What you asked me was
'How do you know
What makes fishes happy?'
From the terms of your question
You evidently know I know
What makes fishes happy.

"I know the joy of fishes
In the river
Through my own joy, as I go walking
Along the same river."

Translation by Thomas Merton The Way of Chuang Tzu, New Directions Books, 1965

Blogger runs self to death in cemetery

In what can only be described as a most bizarre incident, a jogger/blogger apparently embraced the death faerie today by streaking in 92-95 F heat through the rugged hilly terrain of a popular local cemetery to the utter conclusion of a mortal collapse.  notforprophet, known to some as nfp, seemingly first lost all sensibility as he stripped to the buff strewing his running shirt, shoes, socks, and trunks throughout Lakeview Cemetery and then lost his life running full speed smack into a headstone designated “Beers” while apparently attempting to impress a strolling, passerby beauty queen out on her constitutional. 

“It was tragic,” said Pixie Wingwood, who  just happened to witness nfp’s final missteps upon this earth, “He had it all going for him: a good, quick gate, deep breaths, and everything swinging in buff rhythm.  But when he looked up surprised and saw me smiling at him, I recognized that *transfixed look* in his eyes…faraway…and then like a runaway train, *wham* he went into that barrier at the end  of  the line.” 

Services were held on the spot since it seemed stupid to remove his remains from the cemetery only to bring them back again. 

Pixie Wingwood, who was so impressed by nfp’s heroics that she proposed and consummated a common law marriage with him even as he lay in a writhing heap dying, quoted nfp’s cryptic last words as some wholly incomprehensible gibberish, most likely not even English, along the lines of: “an whar are dose fuqin eprops whenya really needem?”

The dreadful L.F. (“Look Fast”) Beers headstone, site of nfp’s undoing.  While some say it was his abrupt attention to the coincidental appearance of Ms. Pixie that distracted him into a mortal colliding slip-up, others who knew him claim they believe it was actually the effects of the unbearable heat on that fateful day that created a mirage of “Brewmeister Heaven” towards  which he deliriously sprinted for a purely imagined finish line of quenching refreshments.

Nothing is more democratic in our society than driving.  Nothing. When else, can you mix with such a cross-match of society as when on the highway?  And despite that someone out there who is *special'*  financially, and socially, and status-wise in almost every respect in our off-road society (thus far eclipsing me and excluding you), on that road with them, you are as potentially as dangerous and deadly to them as they are to you. Touche.

carcooning

So much more than cell phones!!!  LOL

If you’re high and feeling like a king, a queen.

Don’t get all bunched up and abdicate,

But feel regal …as real as can be..

And then feel, likewise, democratic: that we’re all kings, queens equally.

To feel like kings, queens equally

Is a matter of feeling as you do…

Without being such actually.

You always remain just you.

I've decided today that I'm going to steal some hours away from a busy schedule to go to a favorite cemetery to run, take pics, sun, and write. 

If that isn't a form of self-romance, then I'm not sure what is.

You are a beautfiful woman who has just intensified your loveliness in becoming more free.

At this moment, you and you alone inspire me.

And this moment feels like eternity.

I dislike sleep.  But I do it so well.  So well, in fact, that I’m a designated sleeper.  Like a designated driver, but sleeping instead.  And one of these days, the stimulus will arrive to wake me up.  At least that’s what was promised when I joined *the program*.  “Don’t worry: the day will come when you’ll get your call.”  Oh yeah?  Until then what?  More alcohol?

Wake-up Call

Can I tell my secrets?
Would anyone believe?
Probably think I’m talking trashtalk
and rush quietly to leave...

I watched the skies as a child
and, likewise, they watched me:
every morning at seven a saucer
I grew accustomed to see.

Not alarmed, but wondrous I gazed on,
felt a message emanating my way,
and was assured that the world was much safer
and all would be fine on that day.

Then one day, the visitors left me
(only once later in life to return).
Is this world now no longer that safe place--
or was I taught what I needed to learn?

Can I utter this bright secret
and not incur your scorn?
I was taught: each and every new day
is a day when you're once again born.

I'd never call this flower ugly.

When the people of the world all know beauty as beauty,
There arises the recognition of ugliness.
When they know the good as the good,
There arises the perception of evil.
Therefore Being and non-Being produce each other.

  --Tao Te Ching

The Hydnora is a flower that is found in Africa and Argentina.  It is a holoparasite meaning that it produces no chlorophyll of its own and must rely upon a host plant for life-bestowing carbohydratres.  It is truly strange in consisting of only a flower and root with no stem or leaves of any sort.  It's fragrance is very popular with flies as it smells like the most putrid, rotting meat.

Probably not the bouquet of flowers you'd want to send in sympathy to a friend's wake.

But I still don't feel that all because our senses are challenged by this flower that we should just consider it just another stinking parasite.  Never forget: we all come in different shapes and sizes.   To a drunken sailor bumblebee, this flower probably evokes images of mind-boggling brothel-rattling sensuous revelry. 

Damn.  I almost just convinced myself to give up drinking.

On Sublimation