A priori prioritizing

Have to admit, a certain joy to see Published beside my Post. An affirmation as I have too few – actually, a cavernous maw here, worse than my craw, ever unfulfilled.

Needs be I make sense. After the latest carnage-by-crazy, until the finger-pointing abates, I’m suspect by dint and glint of my acerbic words. The syntax taxing. The nouns unsecured, morphing. But nouns not insincere – that would be travesty. I clear my trochee.

Being undiscovered, yet well-posted, hies me to bliss. Fact is, discovery is fraught, from loopiness of many kind intentions and some not nice at all. Contracting publishers in the latter group, and sadists who carry,  guns n laptops. All bad for a boyo. A virgin well-endowed loses a something else after the first molestation. Yet I yearn as a testy child for discovery, rape-rapture of an audience of one-at-a-time.

I’m thinking to move all of this halting watchfulness to some more pretentious site, then use the space here for newsy tromps and giggly puns. To be read. What One Will Do. And that’s the story.

So I wuz freakin out cuz ma bitch took a toot and started channelin Lizzie Borden, she says, an then she says Commere, somethin I wanna ax ya.

Be-dumb-dump.

Okay, maybe I’m not a stand-up kind of guy. Earlier I intended siting the micro-stories, but this is, after all, for me, and I enjoy the tongue. So, “siting,” for citing on site. Shall I say I’m sorry when I’m not?

Pretentious posers are the ones who scratch their tales, their points of view, their poetry. Despite the irritation, I get a sullen joy from backtracking so often to uncorrect the Word that is programmed to try so hard to correct me. There’s criminality for you.

So, Dear Ether, I offer out, sane and sanctimonious, loving each stroke as if burning a cathedral match by match. Amen.

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Thanks to The Weak – and I Thought I Spell Gud

Another deeply-embedded thought lies exposed – procrastination is a function of meaninglessness. Tra-la. Right out there with the encompassing godhead from the futurehood.

Now, what was I – that is – what am I, now, to do?

When words are icon-sequential, prosody is inconsequential. How about that!

I’m building the need to run to sanctuary – of course fending off thoughts of Colorado in the cold, I’m defunct with the premise of story-telling. It’s time to pull out all the cards and get a story completely plotzed like a good shit and flush it out and away. Tra-la in deed.

So I am to walk around the block. I am to plot around a storyline and move my feet and small parts of my mind in unison, to reach the end which is beginning. If anyone says tra-la within the next unknowable end of time I am kerplotz meself, and damn it all, I’ll have no one but myself to blame.

Rue blame, the source of most dysfunction. Blame, shame, and what rhymes? Oh yeah, fame.

We’re off, my cacophony of phonies make ca-ca in my pants and puffing uphill, little engine that could a lifetime and has not, as obstinate as glint in dirt.

Picking up the pace where I left off – beset by agonies I find underfoot. They are there – much as I try to dismiss them there they are. Some are fabulously portentous, stuff for tales laden with meaning in that old symbolic-symbiosis sense. My Myth, by Lisp. I feel the need for bleed – I wanna tell. But no.

So I discovered my book show bomber is at the Po-po’s, confessing all. It’s all about the leveler of experience, and fitting in. This is a more important discovery than garbage left for me to dissemble, haha tra-la in deed. The traps lay all around; I step so gingerly because I don’t want toast for break-up, though my dieting is real. A lot of the freight that brought me here, and hence to my senses, is loaded with Or – To Be Or Not, To Love or Leave, Be Careful or Lose Care. I’m learning abandonment so as not to abandon hope. And what I enter here is Selfish stuff, as needful as breath.

One cannot much procrastinate to breathe. It comes in gulps and desire has nothing to do with it. It comes because. Life.

Meaning? Not so much.

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New Year Resolution

What’s important can sweep upon one to experience, or die. No choice—the air is swiftly laden, and should morphs to must, to breathe.

My adult girl and boy were here for Christmas. Each brought a significant other, and made me think how I longed for a significant sameness, all my life. Now I’m happy with the first, and true, love of my life, after nearly four decades apart. My children see us and in their way, rejoice. I raised these two persons by myself since 14 years ago. Before then, too, as I fell away from their mother as she plainly fell apart. They would probably argue I had nothhing to do with their development, in any positive, emotive sense. They’ve seen increasingly mad women enter our circle by my invitation and grasping for the unity of real love. To end with my true love is nothing short of a miracle for all of us.

We are all guests in her home. I stay with her half the year, then return to my house two thousand miles distant. Over four years, this has become home, and I have less yearning for my high sierra casita and the mountains that loom around the alpine valley. Here, there are high hills enough just a few hours west, and ocean enough a few hours south. Here, the love of my life, and I’m thankful.

She has let life toughen her, as was inevitable. I remain soft and self-indulgent. She is pliant and aims to please. I am demanding though I don’t see it, and my pride in self-awareness suffers for the telling of my smug insistence. All these descriptions could be reversed, and fit.

My daughter’s sometimes lost as I ever was, wanting, but she has won her struggle to set a straight course and revel on her way. My son can be inconsiderate, but he is his university’s guest for a doctorate in some esoteric field that has refined his mind and drives him cleanly through the vicissitudes.

The pride I feel is tangible. The love I have nears absolute, though the idea of the unconditional is ever loathsome. I’ve been too demolished in my time by the idea of entitlement, and how it came to hurt me.

Yet, now I am the one on the dole, who works sidelines only, who cannot believe enough in the sweep of his thought and the fluidity of his words – fluidity not being the word I mean, of course. Now I am the passive spectator, thanks giver, and humble pie hole of the family.

I breathe in my salvations and hope not to drown.

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Alas, alack, another epistolary writ to slow comprehension. I am a pedantic ass, yo!

We’re told life is round but it is not, no more than a linear progression. From any pulpit, whether inculcating mortality, or morality, metaphors only stunt what we are aware is true. My life is a becoming just as Life is going through, and awareness grows, inevitably. That is the design from the time of the bang that conceived me. That is my universe, and the universe of all.

This morning as I lay thinking I was asked to rise, dress, and help get a truck on black ice unstuck, down the way at the bottom of the hill. Colorado meets North Carolina: my element confounding a newspaper carrier unfamiliar with much of snow and ice here on the Piedmont. A time to expose competence, and enjoy a sense of accomplishment. An easy task I mastered after many variations in my youth. And now, this chance opportunity to progress from sprawling lost in thought, to muscle a way free for a member of the tribe.

The two women – my love, who came to get me for my help, and the driver, new to her route for paper delivery, and petite – I let be in manageable roles so I could glory in the task at hand. Lesser women would have resented a sense of violation – as if I thought them less worthy, with myself in swaggering command. I wonder how much of that secretly passed through the predicament, but nonesuch interfered, no oblique comment tipped the pleasure away and turned me foul. Purposely, I didn’t look up into their faces, for any expression of exasperation or disdain would have pitched temperament in a way that nothing positive would ensue, and last, become the memory, move our beings forward with a sense of goodness over what happened. So, I removed the floor mats from behind the tires, and after tossing rock salt we’d brought down from behind, I asked for a straight-back spin, with a light touch, to get some of the gravel underneath the slick treadless tires. I was suddenly made aware the carrier’s kid, a teen, was hunched in the back seat, presumably to help his mom in delivery. What good news. We laid in a push and I backed her off the accelerator, talking up steering angles, limits and such, to pass time as the salt got a grip. I tucked in the mats my partner had brought from her garage, after asking if she really didn’t care using them might make them trash. Then it was easy, made easier by my darling, between the boy and me, laying in hard to help.

I’d worked one grin from the kid, commenting “Merry Christmas” when the two of us first bent down to push against the grille. I don’t think he’d helped earlier; his response seemed to smack of rote, the kind of response an old white man here in Carolina expects from any local black kid, a stranger from another world. And when the job was done, with three of us on the second push, with the white woman, who’d raced up to her house to get her guy to help, pushing hard close at his side, he took no presence to proclaim his pleasure for the help and the success we’d had, together.

Of course his mom was sweet, and we retreated with our bag of rock salt and our mats. Her boy melted into the background but I sensed a glow. I know a kindness had ensued; I think we did good, and maybe, a dawning consciousness was shifted to keep an open mind about strangers, whites, old men and women, and what might be in their hearts naturally, without an angle in mind.

We skitter along the surface of our lives just dimly aware of the transmit, impelled as if by some gravity down the sides of what might be a teardrop life, or a drop of acid that will burn us more than any solution can assuage. We imagine we are progressing as straight-forwardly as we can to whatever goal and meaning we have conceived. But in truth, everything changes in any instant. It may even happen that a glimpse inside the bubble gains some clarity, and meaning is magnified, instantaneously, and forever. We are called to recognizing this strange fact of life: timelessly, it belongs to ourselves.

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millennial quickie

“A new Gallup Poll finds that 40% of Americans believe God created humans in their present form about 10,000 years ago, while 38% believe God guided a process by which humans developed over millions of years from less advanced life forms.
Just 16% believe that humans developed over millions of years, without God’s involvement.”

 –Would a lyrical call to the evolving God persuade a majority we are here to herald His becoming?

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Giving life the clap

Making a little contribution here, before checking to see if anyone has any reply to anything I’ve left out there before.

Of course beginning to agree to go public is a chickenshit way of saying I’m so fearful of rejection, lust for applause has had to wait. Decades.

Developing plot is playing at formulae, and I resent it. Of course that’s stupidly not writ from any position of august or even maybe real accomplishment. The bug to be productive I swatted years ago, when the effort, as applied to broken women, proved itself predictably exhausting, foolish, egoistic, and ultimately, repugnant.

But the callow horror of failure has matured, old duck, into lame evenings watching reruns of Kuryakin playing fey Doc Mallard, and Mark Harmon, real-life heroic and mesmerizing for my true ladylove, may there be transference yet. Hoo-ya. Who indeed. Surely there’s something more to leave than an impression in the sofa. And don’t call me Shirley, ha.

So to have done with it, before it does me in by whoopsie and the vicissitudes of the gut, I here aver my very short stories need to end, and show up here, expecting audience.

After the holidays.

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Perseus in the Valley

My decision to show some story frees me when I’m running late. I wrote this after watching the summer run of meteors in 2009.

 

Last night I succumbed to the stars. Flipping off the backyard security lamp, which usually joins its brother glowballs encircling the horizon, I saw past the usual orange light-buzz to the Milky Way, due Up, a gossamer swath across the full globe above. It was 11:30 and the first meteor streaked – one ten-thousand, almost two, abbreviating its path with particles of intense coals, sparking out in line — from the North over Gunnison, or thereabouts, and gone, perhaps over Durango.

The half-moon started its low arc over Medano Pass in the Sangres. The Dunes below took form in a glimmer of spilled light, but they were far away, and the dark space of the unreflected firmament above was so much closer. 

I decided the hell with it: even I’m Not There, the brilliant Dylan-inspired film on tele that night, not even that Brother-in-Arms, Art-At-Last film held me in. 

It was a warm, wafting-breeze night, gentle, so far. I wrangled the chaise off the porch onto the walk where Tony Little’s Gazelle grazes, and retrieved the binocs and the dirty old comforter from the back of my old Pathfinder. Tucked in and open-eyed, eyeglasses pocketed for a major change, and content, very content, as Path‘s bulk blocked the first hour’s transit of the half-moon so effectively, I forgot it was climbing the eastern bank of sky, at all. 

The first hour or so I counted 30 meteors crisscrossing the sky. Mostly north-south, but the westward one I caught in the binoculars was close enough to imagine hearing its sizzle and think it was red, white, and blue. I started to drift about then, and realized the air was gaining some mist, forming some wispy clouds. 

About 1:00, I rolled back flat and opened my eyes to the damnedest sight in a while, out here where things can confound you. The air was crisper, and I noted clouds low along the globe, and the Way obscured by pervasive vapor. No thunder or lightning flashes; no worries. But then I saw there was a thin, but not too thin, translucent east-west streak across the sky, a dividing line hundreds of miles long. Straight and sure as a paint on the Gunbarrel, or some desert road to infinity you see elsewhere laying before you as you come out of a pass and see clear across a valley floor, forever. Holding still, there in the sky. It took me a few minutes to agree to shed the cover, step out between the garage and the barn, and see if some idiot car dealer in South Fork had got himself a carbon-arc and didn’t have sense enough to sweep the sky but just left it –no. The line wouldn’t touch base, west or east, it just hung across the roof of sky like a sign. I dove back under cover and lay watching, trying to understand. I saw the beam trisected three bright stars, and made note to see if anything moved, or dared to, while I guarded reality, sanity, and whatever other principles soothe us all.

I missed the certain mystery of the Milky Way, now fully obscured. This new crisp beacon of milky light needed explanation; I felt the old human urge to understand. 

When the half-moon rose just enough to peer over Path‘s right front fender, I realized it was in direct alignment with the Path overhead, and three meteors arced as if to celebrate Reason, that old friend to our species, even to me. The bright left face of the shadowed moon provided a spotlight across the vaporous sky. The water vapor was so evenly distributed, the white beam shone straight and true across the whole valley. Wonderful. 

No wakening to pelting hail or thunderhead downpour. No glory in celestial fireworks rivaling the best of Independence Day, were they heralded meteors, or my old friend lightning, back to seek me out. Just fine as it was. 

I climbed out of the chaise, tossed the blankie and binocs back in the Path – yes, I said Thank You out loud — and headed in. The clock read 2:45. A lovely night. Wish I’d been on the mountain, but at least I’d had sense enough to Go See. 

Mark my feeble words — Go See. It’s always a good idea.

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