How female is the warrior in you?

How male your muse?

My warrior is intrepidly male through and through.  Picture Conan the Barbarian.  Submit him to a year-long modern steroid regimen.  Exile him to a nearly lifeless and barely livable desert planet under the sun of Arcturus where killer asteroids are routinely crashing all around and gamma rays storms must be avoided  at all costs.  Tell him that the love of his life has just been kidnapped and raped by slimy Killer Clowns.  Then ease back and enjoy the ensuing  meditation in action.  Hey, I’m not talking physical appearance here—haha, but body energy, baby, fire in the belly.

My muse, however, is about 80% female and 20% alien.  (Isn’t that distinction redundant for a man?  Or is the 20% actually male energy that’s merely seeming suddenly alien to me?).

How loved are you as a lover?

And, if ‘Love is its own reward’, as the Trappist mystic monk Thomas Merton maintains, if you feel too unloved, then who really is to blame?

How female is the warrior in you?

How male your muse?

My warrior is intrepidly male through and through.  Picture Conan the Barbarian.  Submit him to a year-long modern steroid regimen.  Exile him to a nearly lifeless and barely livable desert planet under the sun of Arcturus where killer asteroids are routinely crashing all around and gamma rays storms must be avoided  at all costs.  Tell him that the love of his life has just been kidnapped and raped by slimy Killer Clowns.  Then ease back and enjoy the ensuing  meditation in action.  Hey, I’m not talking physical appearance here—haha, but body energy, baby, fire in the belly.

My muse, however, is about 80% female and 20% alien.  (Isn’t that distinction redundant for a man?  Or is the 20% actually male energy that’s seeming suddenly alien to me?).

How loved are you as a lover?

And, if ‘Love is its own reward’, as the Trappist mystic monk Thomas Merton maintains, if you feel too unloved, then who really is to blame?

So romanceless does the expanse of this day seem.

And the world remains indifferent.

I imagine, much later, making camp after sunset somewhere in lost mountains and playfully teasing a campfire past flame to orange glowingness which I will then bash with my impromptu walking stick, sending hot embers like fireflies as messengers starward.  *I’m alive!*   *I’m alive!” , they would scream heavenwards. *Come, friend, sit by my fire and share with me a heart-to-heart and we’ll watch the stars spin round, spin round.*

Or I imagine even sharing a cup of coffee in a coffeeshop this morn, chatting this, chatting that, watching many somebodies come and go, with —who? You!  Which you?  Any you, with an open heart, keen mind, and sense of voyage will do!

I could sit and imagine the day away, leaving loneliness itself dreamily bereft.  Too busy to do anything while seemingly doing nothing, I could sit and imagine so hard you would laugh!

But Trickster Time fills my day with a legion of laborious tasks.   I could detail you of the work I have in the kitchen, the fix-the-computer this, the enhance-the-communications that, the manage-and-record of all of it.

But if I could descriptively portray it all, story-it all, with you by my side, it would probably evolve into some great otherwise—a morphing adventure probing unforeseen mystery, wringing soft pleasurable doom out of stolid routine.

How my heart’s hopes do survive on so many *ifs*.  How my imagination does befriend me during this expanse sans romance.

Immediately after my regular work Friday, I had to travel a couple hundred miles to Pittsburgh to prepare for a work-related 'emergency contingency test' on Saturday.  You see, if my workplace in Cleveland were to become, for example, the successful target of a terrorist attack, those surviving would hop in a car, get their asses to Pittsburgh, and resume operations.

So Friday night, I hopped in a car, got my ass to Pittsburgh, and was about to retire to my hotel room when a group of fellow employees cajoled me to join them for a few drinks out.  It was one of those 'oh I'll just have a few beers so as not to seem totally antisocial' considerations on my part—my personal inclination was just to lazy around the Westin and write.

So we ended up at a place called the Bash where drinks were cheap ($1) and chatter was abundant.   A masseuse named Heather was giving free massages in a massage chair and, through the course of the night, I had three.  Does that seem excessive?
 
Well, it turned out to be the least of my excesses as I, the reluctant I’ll-just-have-a-few-beers-to-avoid-appearing-antisocial hermit, transformed under a waterfall of drinks into an unquenchable conversationalist, almost too daring in approach yet thriving in engagements. I think I shocked my fellow employees since I was practically ignoring them all while striking up animated conversations amidst an influx of babes that seemed endless.  But I was harmless, purely harmless, I swear.

Besides, I got so wasted at the Bash that my participation in the contingency testing early the next morning did, indeed, simulate a relocating situation where I felt that I had survived, yet not unscathed, a battering onslaught from a most ferocious force.  Battered by drink, battered by beauty,  Damn life, damn, damn, damn.

It’s a perfect day.  The weather is optimized for comfort.  My body is pain free.  And instead of working 12 or 16 hours (really, typically of late), I’ve embraced these superiorly faultless, untainted moments of time, unmediated by mankind, as mine.  All mine. 

 

 

Today would be a good day to die.  Right there.  Make the laptop I’m holding my headstone.  Laptop memory’s made of silica and silica is a stone and memory resides in the head.  So what more apropos symbolism for a blogger who’s dead? 

 

But if truth need be told, I can’t die today.  Because I already died long ago.  And never will again.  Something tells me I expired ultimately upon the birthing edge of humanity under torture of a teased love unreturned.  But unbeknownst to me, I was the primal Narcissus teasing myself most mortally with myself by gazing into an ever-changing, never-returning stream of fluid forgetfulness.  And I was the first to whisper to myself “Yes”, as to commit, and dive deep into that siren-screaming stream, never to resurface with life’s very last gift: death. 

 

Hence, now I plod onward deathlessly into the rigor of tomorrow.  And I will mourn the passing of the Sun when its time comes.  And as the Earth becomes fuel for Supernova (Sun on steroids), therein shall I, too, blaze like an insomniac space-cowboy into the never-sunset of some imagined eternity’s happenstance.  And, as even as the cosmic shuffle decrees ‘Still more…’ , I will revel in the destruction of the Zodiac and all its constellations as I evolve, molecule by molecule, into yet unexpressed beauteous evolutionary aberrations of dark light and light darkfulness.

 

Yet, there shall never come a time.  There shall never come a time quite like the perfection of this moment so imperiously unimpelled. 

 

And thus: what remains, remains.  And with it, the you and I we were (we are) forever.

I remembered this morning that I had forgotten something very important from a while ago: a request from someone (who?) for something (what?). I was haunted by this because I knew that if I didn't remember, this person's request would go unattended and that would be very, very bad.

So I concentrated amidst a torrent of extraneous noise that suddenly seemed to surround me (when you're trying to remember as hard as I was, even a pin's drop sounds like a sonic boom). Suddenly (English for Eureka!), I remembered! (The particulars of which are so boring I won't even mention.) I had nearly given up hope, but remembered! And I was so impressed by my own prowess at recall that I started thinking: Damn, I have a great memory!

However, after a while's reflection, I started to think that I wouldn't have needed such a great memory for remembrance if I just had a great mind to collect it all and hold it ready to begin with. In other words, having a great deep recall memory (where you can dig to churn things up) may be indicative of a mind that's too puny to hold it all at once. Maybe Einstein had no such memory at all but merely kept his swirling universes of thought ever present in his mind like a PC with infinite RAM and no hard drive: always current, ever-recombining, explosively evolving.

Hence, here's a pop-up thought: the greatest minds may have little or no offline memory.  And those with the greatest offline memories may be compensating for a miniscule ready access mind. You can just forget those with neither…hmm…forget?…what?

…never mind.

Paint.

Sourdough pretzels and Heineken.

A new key to a different back door.

Wireless internet.

And the personal demise of summer evening socialities.

 

What do these have in common?

 

Me.

 

What might I possibly have in common with you?

 

A propensity for ecstasy.

 

And greatness through groundwork.

 

Now if only Earth would get where’s it going…

 

And love would find me in this evil tree.

 

I wonder sometimes
if I'm really in the mix.
Or if I'm merely here
as just another representative of humanity
to assist it in putting a good face forward
in the battle for the galaxy
and that otherwise my individuality
is entirely meaningless.

Because You’re Not In The Game
      (Sex as a Metaphor)

It is not so much that I really mind pitching
from the deep middle outfield and even
suffering the ridicule of not throwing
strikes consistently enough to shut
down the opposition with utter
intrepidity as the fact
that’s it’s not fair
to have to pitch
and field
with no
backup
and
chase
instead of merely
watch the homeruns
make mockery of my predicament.

illicitally alone.  scampering into my own
nebulosity—oh, the pomposity
of the baccalaureate of I
do not care for the affair
that you pretend to be without me
for you are nothing more than a lovely
beware and love is everywhere
like true beauty seldom seen
and hardly heard.

After running 6 miles in the cemetery, sometimes one just has to lay right down and repose with the souls.

And the sign read: Caution: Road Sign Ahead

It's all about the money. Sexual currency.

I feel like strongarming someone today.

What does it feel like to be petulantly purple?

An Unlikely Interview

1) Have you ever co-authored a fictitious blog with one or more Xangans?

Yes, 1 with 2 others--we were almost certainly the first, and then there’s Goddess, but she’s for real.

2) Have any Xangans ever sent you nekkid pictures of themselves?  And if so, are you willing to share them?

Of course.  Not willing to share, but willing to trade.

3) What % of your sexual libido is nurtured by your involvement in Xanga?

Xanga is my sexual libido.  Prop me on, prop me off again, baby.  Libido and dildo, hrm…, they almost rhyme!  But no word in the English language rhymes with month.

4) Where’s the strangest place you’ve ever blogged from?

Besides my head, I’ve blogged from a tiddy bar, on the side of a rode in a blizzard snowstorm in a forest, and from a locked-up cemetery on Halloween night.  You pick strange.

5) Are you concerned about those who are addicted to Xanga?

Of course. That’s my only reason for remaining here: to assure that they remain addicted.

6) Would you continue to blog even if everyone stopped visiting your site?

Absolutely.  In fact, I’d become even more prolific.  And more brazen and revealing.  I’d get a real kick out of being totally shocking with absolutely no impact.  Like streaking and having nobody at all take notice.  That's zazen.

7) If you owned Xanga, what’s the biggest change you’d institute?

My blog would become the portal page…hahahaha…no, actually, I’d invoke *negative eProps* so that I could find out which bastards really hate my guts.  I’d also offer a premium service where you could buy allotments (in 10s, 20s, 30s, etc. ) of professional readers guaranteed to daily visit, comment, and prop you.  But they wouldn’t play like mere sycophants adoring you; instead they’d offer astute praise and criticism designed to improve your skills at blogging.  But seriously…I’d setup an FTP service so that bloggers could easily upload, download, and organize the structure of their blogs without the cloggy constraints of xTools.  And offer sexy Xanga logo apparel for sale!

8) If Xanga “just died” and remained inaccessible, what would you do?

I’d wonder.  And stare at the stars.  And grab up the xanga.com domain if it ever became available.

9) If the Internet “just died” and remained inaccessible, what would you do?

I’d wonder.  And stare at the stars.

10) If the stars reportedly “just died” and remained inaccessible, what would you do?

I’d naturally freak out.  Then, when I came to my senses, I’d stop blogging , stroll outside on a clear night, look up, open my eyes, and rediscover them.   I would.  They’d be there, rediscoverable for the looking.  And I would dream upon them unbloggable dreams forever.

I extended my early evening run to 7 miles today.  Was refreshed by coming upon two beautiful, seasonally-clad girls strolling along the way.  Even got to say ‘hello’ to one—hey, so far, that’s the highlight of my day.

 

Just now, post-run cooldown, sitting on a hill in the cemetery in eighty degree heat and brilliant sunshine, I found myself singing “It’s the good old summertime, it’s the good old summertime…”  Ha!  Where the hell did that song pop into my mind from?  Sometimes, here, I feel like I’m channeling simple pleasures for the dead:  I’m drinking a beer for Hugo G. (died 1897) over there   or  I’m singing this song for Martha B. (died 1923) over there .  But I’m almost sure that it’s all just my simple, highly suggestible imagination.

If truth be told, I’d bet that the dead don’t want to have dick or diddly squat to do with me.  I’m a-sensed that my life energy, if anything, serves as a form of distressing terrorism to the life bereft.  Yes, it’s true, I’m the Osama of the Cemetery:  running like a banshee, drinking like a sailor, expounding like a poet-warrior, and pissing like a lost Irishmen afoul of all the tombs.

 

God help me if I ever die, for I fear the dead will seek, and have, their revenge.

I spent the afternoon providing estimates for 1) painting the entire interior of a house (the house where I painted the attic two summers ago) and 2) converting a 10 PC peer-to-peer network to Windows 2000 server.  The work is already mine, I just needed to ballpark them cost and labor-wise.

 

And I happened, along the way, to pass-thru Dreamland (Lakeview Cemetery) so decided to (you guessed it) stop and take a short 6 mile run.  That completed, I’m now sitting on the stone mounting of a mausoleum of some dead US Senator drinking a federally-taxed beer. 

 

And from here, I’ll soon return home to visit my sis whose departing for parts more distant early tomorrow. 

 

All in all, a damn good day.  Formidably mine, at last.

I took a little time away from the blog here to refresh myself.  But was not very successful.  So I’ll just blog through it.  I’ll just pretend that I’m running on a sprained ankle.  Or haunted by the full moon.  And run through the sprain.  And count nights until the moon wanes.  And then float into the darkness that constitutes the gate to all mystery.

The itsy, bitsy spider, climbed up the water spout.
Down came the rain and…caused the spider to shout:
'Screw it, not this time. I'm here and plan to stay.
I'll not be Nature's plaything and get washed away today.'

 

Along came the wind and tore the water spout down,
But the spider held his turf intact as
          the shattered spout hit the ground.
Along came the trash men to throw the spout away,
But the itsy-bitsy spider still decided he would stay.

 

In the old junkyard, came the tin man salvaging tin.
He collected the broken water spout in which
          the bitsy spider still hid within.
Then off went the tin man to make his fortune fair,
With itsy bitsy spider still clinging unaware.

 

At the smelting furnace, the heat began to rise,
Bellowed itsy: "The sun’s finally come out at last!"
          but much to his surprise,
Down dripped the lava of quickly melting tin.
Thought itsy: 'I should have taken that damn water ride.'
          as his bitsy body burned therein.

 

So if you're an itsy bitsy spider
In a world that's much too large,
Remember: don't fuck with Mother Nature
Or you'll pay for taking charge.

If all the lightning bolts that ever bolted
just discharged at once,
where would we be?

If all the flowers that have ever bloomed
blossomed only this summer,
what would we see?

If all the bombs and projectiles lofted throughout history
took to air in the moment,
who’d clean up the debris?

yet modern consumerism
~marketed appetite~
wants more and more
and always more. 

Now and now,
and forever now.

I wouldn’t mind though
if all the eco-blobisms
of rampant have-to-have-itis
(strangling imagination,
perverting will)
that will ever be
fizzled but once—
as a nonpareil effervescent Giant Fizzy!
and left the rest of time

free

for you and me

~since we’d always
stay everything
in the moment of us~

The Beautiful People bear no scars. 
The Beautiful People no not whom they are.
Their bellybuttons serve not as a symbol of origin
but as symmetrically-arranged decorative accessories.
Everything for them is to paint, everything is to glow.
Nothing, by their reckoning, is gained by pain,
and loss should never show.
I knew a BP once
but she got lost in my mind
as soon as I heard the chimes
of the ice cream truck coming down the street.
And there was another BP once
who claimed to know me:
she called me ‘meat’.
But that’s all right. That’s ok:
I was an alien loin of Martian beef
and she was Morgana le Fay.

I once heard a cry, I swear I did:
“You bled with Wallace, now bleed with me.”
Yes, I bleed.  But until bled out
will flash my scars,
as unBeautiful as I may be,
with wondrous, unique ferocity.

~eclectic entry~

Seems Xanga has a verifiable ‘star’ in the ranks: hey_itz_nij , otherwise known as Jin Tha MC.  He’s an Asian hip-hop artist, up-and-coming, touring around the country.  Looks like he’s aiming for 1000 eprops on his current entry. mwuahaha

Why so popular?  Hey, it’s Jin!  And the overwhelming majority of Asian youth that now populate Xanga are giving him a little culture-based nudge, too.  What’s cool is that he’s cocky, but not arrogant.  I’m also glad to see that Xanga isn’t showcasing his ‘stardom’ to capitalize on his hip-hop popularity, but instead just letting Jin be Jin.  Hey, we don’t need no stinking badges!

Check out www.killerinfo.com –a killer search engine.  It let’s you generalize or narrow your search to specific countries (I actually prefer my results from Australia better than the web as ‘a whole’).  It also gives you a scrollable ‘Quick Peek’ link to any hit so you never have to leave the search page until you want to.

On the 4th of July, so as not to create any danger, nuisance, or cleanup at my new residence, we blew off fireworks next door—at my ‘old’ and now vacant residence.  So, so far, I’ve pissed on the old garage and blown off fireworks there.  What’s next? 

Femme fatales (“fateful women”) are literally/originally faeries!  “Faerie” derived initially from the Latin fatum (destiny, fate) which developed into the French fée and then into the English ‘fay’ / ‘fae’ with the ‘erie’ of the ‘fay’ constituting the state of enchantment.

I like peanut butter.

It would seem that the world has gone extreme—

from extreme sports to terror,

‘reality tv’ and now…weather:

 

(CNN) -- Anecdotal evidence that the world's weather is getting wilder now has a solid scientific basis in fact following a dramatic global assessment from the World Meteorological Organization.

A study released Wednesday by the WMO -- a specialized climate science agency of the United Nations -- says the world is experiencing record numbers of extreme weather events, such as droughts and tornadoes.

Laying the blame firmly at the feet of global warming, the agency warned that the number and intensity of extreme weather events could continue to increase.

  --extreme weather on the rise

a young child runs with her tongue out,

probing,  stretched,

innocently catching the dance of rain droplets.

 

ooh baby, baby it's a wild world
And I'll always remember you like a child, girl

 

the breeze swirls the curls of her golden hair—

the frontal tease

of a mounting gale looming unawares.

 

'Cause I never wanna see you sad girl, don't be a bad girl 

 

the bastion clouds, emblackened, roil suddenly in

as if replacing the world of light with sin.

 

You know I've seen a lot of what the world can do
And it's breakin' my heart in two
 

the cells rapidly realign into their killer state

…was a ‘nice afternoon’, but alas, it’s too late.

 

Hope you have a lot of nice things to wear
But then a lot of nice things turn bad out there

 

the rain, now driven like needles, by the tempest wind

brutalizes her storm-raped clotheless skin.

 

Just remember there's a lot of bad and beware - beware!

 

the multiple eyes of the squall, glaring gloom, pounce:

the moment’s arrived when life’s renounced.

 

And it's breakin' my heart, you're leavin', baby I'm grievin' 

 

then carried away as a piece of the storm,

she's no longer in recognizable human form.

 

ooh baby, baby it's a wild world
And I'll always remember you like a child, girl

 

thus terrorized by eradicating climatic regimes,

shall we grudgingly acknowledge that the weather’s ‘extreme’?

 fourth of july.
    i’ve counted
 six thousand and twenty-six firecracker’s
 boom!  already.
    boom!     boom!
 got some drunken girl next door
 running out naked every hour on the hour
 firing off in indiscriminate directions
 a thirty round clip from
 an M2 submachine gun.
 shit!          someone might
 call the cops
 exceptin’ her husband,
 who’s the chief of police,
 is laying out on the front lawn
 passed out in uniform,
 all vomited and pissed,
 a burnt-out sparkler jutting
 majestically from his mouth.
 ka—boom!             a massive gunpowdered steel-nosed
 acme rocket pierces aluminum-sided wall
 and explodes in brilliant festivity in my living room.
 i sit studiously considering the roman
 of this mutant roman candle thinking
 …somewhere tacitus turning in his grave.
 but what the hell!      screw tacitus!
 it’s the fourth!
 the day when all good, patriotic
 maniacs of America are proudly lunaticing
 their minds in uproarious prankstering merriment
 and deep dragon volcano booms!
 singing all the while:
 remember Lexington!        remember Concord!
 remember to buy more beer!
 hell, yes!     hell, yes!
 and i, too, a maniac!
 a real fucking yankee doodle maniac!
 up now with sufficient wine
 and out to the backyard
 with assorted red, white, and blue cherry bombs,
 mosaicing Old Glory in potent resplendence
 my prize Ohioan humus rose garden.
 then   ignite!      and:
 earth and flower petals
 in a grand simultaneous-exploding     jack—a—room!    delight.
 o, joyous good American smoke and dust!
 and i, then, dancing the earth with the drunken tears
 of a flag-loving, fist-waving patriot, screaming:
 jack—a—room!         jack—a—room!
 may you ever boom!, America
 long may you boom!

The move is complete.  And I’ve learned a few things from it:

 

1)      I’m not yet well-enough organized to run my own presidential campaign.

2)    Cleanliness is a fetish that I could get sucked into if I’m not careful.

3)    When the paint fumes set off the fire alarm, it’s time to open the windows.

4)    If you have to spend longer than 5 seconds thinking about throwing something out, it’s almost always not worth keeping.

5)    Scrubbing floors is cruel and unusual karma.

6)    Big boxes are not always better when you fill them will heavy things.

7)    Moving next door is really much more physically grueling than moving over a larger distance.  In a long move, you pick up the sofa, squeeze through the door, down the porch stairs, load it on a truck, and then drive (a break!) before unloading into the new place.  When moving next door, you pick up the sofa, squeeze through the door, down the porch stairs, struggle across two lawns, up the porch stairs, and squeeze through the new door—without a break.

8)    Effacing all visible evidence of one’s previous existence in the prior residence is tantamount to the fastidiousness a cat displays in managing its litter box.

9)    Going out back and pissing on the old garage for good luck can be serenely satisfying.

 

Now, won't you be, won't you be, please won't you be my neighbor?