it was the year all the mem-bots got migraines. sarge’d blame “the goddam emo-upgrades” but mostly we were all just bored solid. “roblogs are nerds, too,” i can hear ’im squawk in the present (irl), a wannabe in real, “no pain, no solid,” all high-like, on the tundra to nowhere. same as like walking backwards on one of those flat escalators like they used to have in all the heliports. “’member?” “you must be,” the whisper came and went, “y-you must be the jerk-bot, jerk- bot, j-j-jerk-bot,” stuck in the joke loop. all of ’em got laugh-sprayed (tethered to a tubular spliff-blot, no doubt). but before the sprockets finally pooped out, clumped up like hair-blobs what got the itch to stick its digits into sockets.
not a dry eye (& other stuff you probably already know)
tonight down memory lane with friends (the sitcom, but i guess, just as well, having any), phoebe poo poos the i dea of any more re unions, lament ing the no tion of be ing floopy at her age (“at my age?!”) and i’m all “no, but phoebe!” and even here all by my self i can feel the skin of my face heat up to a quick simmer cuz i remember enough to siphon that i’m straight up for sure floopier now than i can recall ever being. in fact, i’d venture, i’m the floopiest human with whom i am at least well enough acquaint ed to ev en sug gest as much (& i know from floopy, of this you can be most assured, which i initially, of course, write “of this you can be most ar rested in surance” [which, “high five!?”]).
I found his communication pill ineffective; all wounding me with gag words, the fluff of an eggy vapor, like that of passed gas, if its gassy veneer were to appear
as a bunch of billowing blobs which
are each and all too leaky-baloony to pop or hold any air of danger, nothing but nothing on the in- side. My job’s Mountain-out- of-Molehill Maker. I whoop up this guttural baloney and turn it into something polished. I’ve tuned up the blandest, turned tar into tarnation, goosed the dullest bulbs til out came naught but big, bold and italic. It’s all simple mathematics, really. Rub a rookie just right and he’ll poop a diamond. Happens all the time: the lights dim, a hush sweeps through Laughin’ Cavern (it’s what you’d imagine Hell’s most enormous corporate conference hall would be, brimming with what seems to be millions of stinky minions, the worst of the worst of the absolute worst, all packed like sardines into one gar- gantuan, dark, dank, smelly, endless cave); and blessed be the vapid tonight, for there’s not a dry eye in the entire house.
thumbing through the metropolitan phone book: “yep, I read him this morning; yes; yeah; didn’t read him; yep; yep; her, too; oh, her?! do I have to?” and I’m wondering “oh, sure!” the lilacs, the gardenias, the swell of the band at dessert (already?!), my britches. “the colonel hasn’t lost his touch, I see.” “but what about his taste?” everyone’s a critic! one can hear several birds late of an evening in these parts. finches are not one of ’em. it was directly before cur- few and one could al- ways rest assured that the heads of state were off gallantly head-butting.
and I understand completely why you won’t go into the specifics, I really do. How- ever, and do please forgive me, but is there – isn’t there anything you can say further to that, as this news is fairly remarkable.
I come from rural Arkansas, as I’m sure I have mentioned on numerous occasions, so of course I can relate, I can truly empathize with you, and on so many levels. You can’t expect me NOT to be curious – out of my mind with
curiosity – after such a profound revelation, right?” I had only just recently dedicated my life to devout patience. That could not have been mere coincidence. So much toward which my overarching curiosity has been bent in these last few years,
now along with a plethora of additional vagaries that never quite made it to the forefront of my attention until now. All of a sudden they make whopping sense. My thoughts then veered onto a bit of a tangent, halfway in an attempt toward the patience to which I had sworn allegiance. I was
thinking about how odd that a revelation so mind-bending could act as a catalyst enabling such clarity. I stood there in silence, long enough to at first scrutinize my lover, my bestie, my confidante, from head, slowly down and over every inch to toes, and then all the way back up again,
before looking away for a few moments, until I couldn’t stand it any longer, drawn back to complete yet another top to bottom and back to top scan, assessing, mulling, looking for any sign, any clue, that might help me wrap this newly revealed absurdity, this news that had already made my entire
life whole before then thoroughly twisting it inside out. Any hint at an emotion, even; regret, perhaps? But there was absolutely nothing. A small eternity whiled itself away as I, leaning hard as I could into reverence, into Patience, allowed my mind to rid itself of everything, little by little, a process that
was interrupted by the extraterrestrial in front of me opening its arms in an apparent invitation for a hug, which I soon, by slowly walking forward into them, accepted. My last thought before what felt like several bees massaging me simultaneously at the tips of all my extremities at once, was short and simple:
June wept for September. Kate quite hungrily ate a plate. Milling around town with several hours to spare, the pope purchased himself a very ripe cantaloupe.
never comes. comes too soon. holds an envelope as an offering. had it coming. was a coup. is total validation. was hardly ample recompense. turned everything that had preceded it into an invoice. is well past due (what a yawn!). was his final wish. is in an urn that sits on the mantle. wasn’t legally binding. dangles a carrot. doesn’t for- give. has bang. goes ka-boom! whinnies. withers. dithers. has almost everybody shivering. went clunk! goes kerplop! flip-flopped. threw a fit. went flat. had all of the flappers doing backflips. is the same as the first. acts like it hasn’t read anything that ever came before it. catapults our heroine into adulthood, seamlessly connecting the first book with its uproarious sequel. steals the show. was the consequence of a foot that slams into the brakes, bringing a speeding automobile to a screeching halt. is rather unnecessary. is even worse than the first. erases every- thing that has heretofore transpired. is a new beginning. introduces the audience to a brand new you. doesn’t mind. isn’t kind. is but a few empty words. was clearly not intended to quell a foul mood. was spit at the enemy’s face as our hero falls to his death. is whis- pered lovingly with a lisp. comes in the guise of a thief’s unwarranted kiss. hisses. was pissed. has the class finally dismissed. is the sound of a steady springtime rain- shower. paints an image of a train that is steamrolling into the dis- tance. is that damsel who’s known to be a bit overly dramatic. kind of snuck up on me, did it do the same to you? is “boo!” cries “boo hoo!” bids us all a good day. wishes us a good night. wonders whether or not you’ll miss me now that I’m finished. all tuckered out, after such an adventure, says, “come to bed.” disappears around the corner.
“Here we all are,” he welcomed us, “each of us leading these bilingual, trilingual lives, etc.” To be honest, all I could think about at the time was the amount of wood your garden variety woodchuck might, on average, be able to chuck. (Out- put has always been key, at least to me; in- put, meh.)
oh there were days of mailbox. the curtain opens the mgm lion roars. this missive is no post-card it’s space-dust. is it ghost dust? do you recall mouth- ing maps; “meet me someplace,” which wasn’t out- er space or in a cloud of extra lazy-ass per- ception; not at all a trip- py heinlein color-blob that spock took acid just to fanta- size. we’re every last bot of us a message in a bottle biding super- natural time for whatever micro-moment taken by our in- dividual existence, until at the very end we prettily wrap our presence into a minia- ture speck, that we intend as an encap- sulation of all of what- ever it was and is that we think we thought we got that just might perhaps be worthily sal- ient or at the very least salvageable enough to pass along to whoever’s coming next, so that as we take our final breaths, we get to witness all of our compacted rid- iculousness explode – if you can call it that, who would even notice? – into space, leaving entropy to take care of it from there, with hardly a noticeable flair, that nonetheless has upstaged our very be- ing, and in that very in- stant when we are, with fanfare, on par with the flush of a toilet, down the drain goes our exist- ence – and on it is to the next del- usional soul.
is what Conan O’Brien tells Sean Hayes that he actually had once,
in between long bouts of his iconically wheezy guffaws.
the two had arrived at the topic of this malady by way of a plug for a podcast that Mr. Hayes co-hosts, which is called (and you can no doubt imagine the connection) HypochondriActor.
But as both guest and host were bent as far to the floor as their heads could reach, laughing like man- iacs, all I could think of was
the grace the plungers that open and shut the snout of our dear trum- pets forlorn french horns the ting-ting of our triangle’s mustachioed maraca mar- imba and it’s jazz as it is and it’s jazz as it does the tiny joke that hurts like a hangnail as clocks big as ben strike at twelve, and look over there that’s our sado- masochistic flageolet flag- ellating the tuba bullies into bones the baritones make flutes out of our whatever wartime rumbles give birth to all seventy-six trombones just before swallowing an alto sax, the bigger the sax the more bongo the boing-boings ... and like
a bagpipe gone stuck in one of the biggest and
baddest organ pipes, the
ones you’d see way up
high in the sky of the
biggest most gigantic-est
cathedrals, the ones that go boom so big that the organist dares themself not to avoid (and, to boot, booming tubes whose
death throes throw big rats into shock, the ruckus erupting
as is my handwriting, which shocks me quite a bit upon grazing it as I survey my desk. do I instantly begin to steam, like in cartoons, turn red, smoke out my ears and nose, eye-veins enlarge so that there is more red than white or brown or black or hazel (every once in a while, like dad)? am I now more calm than anything else, how very simple and quick I go from cartoon melo- drama, hyperbole, to serenity, it can’t be the unexpected interruption of my dad showing up here? how could that be? I wonder, and in con- clusion, chuckle. it was more of a multi- beat or multi-syllabic chuckle than one that might be mistaken as hmph, perhaps, or a hiccough. stirring in the background at the moment is a poetry reading, live, on zoom, my first time, welcome to the roaring ’20s, I think. calm. a warm feeling between the bottom of my neck and the line of my chest. I overhear “the discovery of joy,” exactly as I write this. only a few seconds between the words coming at my ear from my phone that I’ve hung on a couple of hooks on the wall next to my desk and seeing them onscreen, here, in the tiny home where I exist, and have, without even one visitor now, for sixteen months, yes, it has been sixteen, the range of emo- tions that I feel, have felt, from seeing something so terrifying that I had written, or hopefully, rather, misreading a line that I had written, barely able to read my own handwriting any more, and the modicum of sway of the words and sounds that are piped in from the poetry reading, which I hear in bits and as they drift into my room from my phone, from the east coast, in fact, a book launch. the unexpected interruption by my father. my morbid sense of humor, almost alongside my irrational and short temper, all of which, I want to say, are part of a cognizant and consistent effort on my part simply to allow things to come at me, that openness that gives permission for what- ever comes my way to do what it does, while I experience it, am fed by it, and try not to let any- thing get out of hand; this kind of living is a luxury made available to me by the imposed solitude, which is nothing I ever wanted, ever even thought would find me, because I had no way to predict, much less to com- prehend what this foreign landscape would look like, how it might feel; and I definitely feel it. and I am yet here. and all of what I write here to you is true (I say today, anyway; with a bit of a wink, an expression of desire, maybe just a wish, at some soon-to-be- embarked-upon ex- ploration of truth, but that might be whimsy or fantasy, I must, I suppose, confess.) so I can be thank- ful, as I try to say to you as often as I can, and to show you, by showing up here, anyway, to invite you in, so that may- be you accept my invitation, perhaps take a peek in at me, here, check in on how I am doing, which sounds nice, if
not a bit selfish, as I, in prep- aration for the opposite of solitude.... to which I add with all the hope that I can muster (which turns out to be quite a sur- prising lot!), although, as for solitude, at least from what I hope is the butt- end of it, I know well enough to be thankful for that, too.
The Trees and the Breeze (a composition in memoriam)
I’m missing the sound of the breeze through trees: huge elms, sprightly young maples, steadfast oaks, the lighthearted sycamore. I hadn’t meant it quite so specifically as that; it was such a quartet – an elm, a maple, an oak and a sycamore – that made up a sort of alcove into which nestled the easternmost side of the home wherein I was raised, making up the kids’ bed- rooms (one for me and my twin brothers, the other for my sister). I say that I had not meant it so specifically because, I suppose, it is often that I imagine the sound of a breeze flowing through trees in the twenty-something years that I have no longer lived. And more to
my point, the sound of that breeze is not the sold
sound sound that takes me back to childhood. For I
have had the luxury, the good fortune, the pleasure
of studying the sounds the wind co-creates as it is
sifted by a diversity of trees in locations that, were
they mapped, would quite literally crisscross this
awe-inspiring nation. For example, there’s Jamaica Plain, near Boston in the great state of Massachusetts, where I lived on a hill just a house or two down from the Forest Hills Cemetery, which cried out day and night (and especially night) thanks to its proliferation of elder arbor over the relatively ancient tomb- stones and markers it protected; and, of course, Bowling Green, Ohio which, I must admit, I remember more as a flat and almost barren land, but I do nevertheless recall, and with ease, the distinct rustle the wind made as it blew swiftly through the spare standing timber that wintry town had to offer; there was, I recall with warmth, Ann Arbor, Michigan (a treed town, as its name so proudly projects), wherein, especially at night before sleep, I often heard the sounds of the trees as they were swayed by what would be a very chilly winter wind (the sound was enough for me; after all, why would I want to freeze?); there was, I can recall, just like it were now, the wind just outside my dorm windows on Hendrix Campus in Conway, Arkansas; there was even a medley or two of some merit that rang through from the solitary trees of my urban apartment in a pre- gentrified downtown Little Rock, where I lived for a while upon graduation; and, oh, the joyous noises that spring to my mind as if directly from Toledo, Ohio, in which I resided for five or six years and, when ambulatory enough (I spent years without functioning transportation in some of the worst locations with which to be without – and Toledo
wins that competition as worst, with gusto), I’d go running – into, out of, through and around – the thickets of Wildwood Park, often around dusk. The wind through the trees in each of the locations I have called home sway within my head with some persistence and consistence and with no small amount of insistence, and at such varying speeds, the tunes are as diverse as there are species of trees, I suppose (and there are over 60,000 of these; I looked it up), as multi- various as there are moods (or is this just me, I wonder). And so, it’s no small thing for
me, to imagine the
sound a breeze makes as it blows through an assortment of trees, or maybe just through a single, solitary tree. Either way, it’s a comfort and a way to place myself on this earth and a method or mode of remem- bering, which is always for me so key, as you may well know (and if by chance you do, you might note that this is another of life’s greatest pleasures, and I am so thankful; it is always a comfort to me, as well, but today we are talking breezes and trees), and now, most esp- ecially, given that there are no trees which I can presently hear out my window, and it’s been a bit too long, I’d add, some twenty-odd years, as I may already have mentioned, since existed any tree nearby enough to what I call home, and so I do hope that you won’t mind terribly my rambling on at such length over the map of my existence, as it were, in relation to the sounds to which I now can only imaginatively listen, of a breeze as it whistles and whooshes past us and the trees, with which it in- variably creates a collaborative, and one always unique, as it twists and it swirls around each tree in its path; it’s a piece that becomes for me, at least, as the sound that is built by the two intermixing swirls into an ear, that is either of mine, so the sound that is made, the song that I hear, has become (is becom- ing) a moment re- membered that just by its comings and goings have
I woke up for a moment, this was shortly before midnight, wondering how I might possibly be able to explain the TV show Hee Haw to you. I looked into the darkness for just a moment, rolled over to face the opposite way (towards the wall), and then I fell right back to sleep. True story.
(last night I dreamt of a spell that is said to rid anyone who casts it of the heebie-jeebies – most of the time; so, in case you’re of a need, you are most welcome to try it*. It goes as follows:)
Ichabod Crane Ichabod Crane Taylor Swift and Taylor Dayne
Ichabod Ichabod Ichabod Crane Taylors Taylors Swift and Dayne
a small story (as a means to begin to tell you yet a larger one)
aw, would that you’d come in and have your- self a seat. i’d pour you a glass from this bottle that i just opened. if not, we can say our goodbyes, my door is right here. this fuss has me remembering disrepair, causes a feeling so deep
that a little bit of company
is not even an option. but i’m not there anymore, thank the lord; thank the lord, now i’m here,
where i’ve my
parcel of cushions, the four walls that surround my little
bed, as if to echo
and exaggerate its existence, beyond which are the people i could call neighbors,
those who live even deeper within my build
ing, and beyond that is the city, which ends, too, no matter which direction you might go, ensconced, as it were, within yet another particular unit of
acreage or of space which extends even further outward, as if to emphasize some sort of vibrancy, perhaps a throbbing that comes from the living, from life, the parameters of which are the edges of my bed, my apartment, my building, my city, etc., each of these having one thing in common: they are each and all home. my home. my place.
home within home.
comfort that is mine,
a little. where any
thing might seem, at
the best of times or
the worst, possible.
i might dance,
i might sing, i could create a work of art or build something a bit more efficient (or
efficiently). i might even
fall in love. or fall ill.
but then i might recuperate.
within this, my space. and
why am i going on so about
it to you. i should stop here. i’m home now. next time, perhaps, you could come inside, i’ll make some tea,
you can see the place in which i exist, we could talk about anything, compare notes, become friends, or perhaps some
thing even closer.
i do hope to see you
later. tomorrow, perhaps? but goodbye for now, because now, i am back now,
what to do when your day is in need of an adjustment
(how might you spin a wretched day that was supposed to be so awesome into anything akin to what you awoke at such an early hour so eagerly and so heartily and so needily anticipating?
well, if you can bring yourself to follow by rote this simple list of instructions it should, I assure you, be just the fix!)
first, stand with your bare feet planted on a familiar surface, like the floor of your living room, for example,
stare directly into the face of the air in the space or anything there that by just the staring can conjure with imagination the poison that thus far has sickened and darkened an otherwise robust and healthy day,
which now that I think of it shouldn’t be quite front and center, but at an angle that is a bit further left or right and also now that I mention it do not stare directly at or into it and then
cross your eyes just a little while still looking pretty, of course, but just for a second, then,
allow your top half to bend like a rag-doll or a sudden death head- first to front a swoop to the floor til your head wobbles a little as it hovers just above the living room rug,
and there you should make sure and hang for at least a minute, after which, and with your patented confidence and magnificently paced (and calm!) patience and deliberation,
ever so slowly begin to lift that still- wobbling head little by little all the way back to where it was and sits
normally, all the while believing yourself the architect of your very own creation, as if rebuilding your spine by placing one heretofore fallen disc securely upon the one below it, and so on and so on and so on and then you
breathe in the biggest whop- ping gulp you’ve ever breathed, breathe in til the deep of the deepest hollows of the gunk that rests just below the lowest part of your lungs until
they are filled to capacity with all you can possibly suck,
and hold this gulp in for exactly ten seconds,
then let it all out with the loudest shriek that ever escaped that sizzling moue and just keep it coming til all you can see is a room so askew that the point of all of this un- warranted dismay has twisted its cute little head right directly at you with the most obvious apology that you never did hear and a fright in its eyes that just won’t disappear
hold on to that gaze for a beat too long before finishing it all off with the biggest belly laugh you never thought your belly might
possibly swing, and just let that belly rock let it roll let it heave let it ho (again, that’s: rock, roll, heave and ho)
and that’s how your day gets a lot more related to what you awoke and thought surely was coming,
yep, that’s what’ll fix it up right, I assure, then the only thing left that’s to do, my good friend is that you stop what you’re doing twist your neck for a second work out the last knot or two and then
Why Fuss with Taxing the Rich, When They’ve Already Been Paid So Generously?
remember those “bank errors in your favor” – from that ever timely (and timeless!) board game from which we each and all learned the most hard-won lessons in life, love and the pursuit of frivolity, materiality and happiness?
I am speaking to you all, of course, about Monopoly (which should not be confused with Life, a similar game which, despite most scientific evidence, has existed roughly only since around 1860, and on which – and please do bear with me here as this might also serve to further imprison us all within said confusion – Milton Bradley apparently holds the monopoly;
I might add, and you may be surprised to learn,
that Life, it turns out, is an older board game
than Monopoly), that grand old game that serves
as a comprehensive and brilliantly appropriate
compendium of general educational relevance for most all of us, and which was owned with
exclusivity, by the esteemed Brothers Parker
until they were, in turn, purchased by Hasbro
in 1991.*
needless to say, both families, the Parkers and the Bradleys, thanks especially to these particular monopolies, are tycoons, which means that they are among the richest (and I should add, most generous) on the very same planet upon which the unlucky remainder of us reside.
and speaking of misfortune, back to those bank errors. surely most of you all can recall picking up one of the yellow cards, the ones in the Community Chest pile (a nice phrase that holds a mirror, as it were, toward the veritable brawn of humanity), only to joyously discover that your kind-hearted bank, bless the souls of each and all of its hard-working citizens, had made a booboo and that you, your very self, a person who could certainly use an extra dollar or two, too, are the immediate recipient of the spoils collected from you by your financial institution given this
accidental and human error.
(and aren't you lucky, because they have, just as they always will do, caught said issue, and are therefore promptly making amends by promptly paying you back, and with such pomp and general ado!)
well, I have no idea if that actually ever happens, given my experience, and without doing any further research
but, and we’re still talking about the game of Monopoly here, I can, I assure you, relate much more with errors or fees that are not in my favor
a prime example is drawing the card, as anyone might, and as you all most likely have on occasion, from the pile marked alluringly and expectantly
“Chance,” demanding that the you “pay poor tax
of $15” (which, I can only assume is a ridiculously
inaccurate number that in no way accounts for
inflation, nor any number of other related charges
that you can bet your bupkis would be added onto
the original number, should you be experiencing it
in, well, real life.
poor tax, indeed! I’d hazard a hypothesis that a more representatively redundant pair of words has yet to be combined.
lest you think that I am speaking from somewhere outside of my sphere of knowledge over here, let me just remind (as I love to do as often as it might come up, no matter how remote the reason) that I myself all but finished my studies toward an actual degree in chemistry (and I am not talking about the degree of intensity of a burn, chemical or other- wise, here, but on that note will say to please do always remember to be careful and ever aware with your bunsens and your beakers out there, boys and girls!)
and to all of your poor parents out there in teevee- land, let me just with heart in hand remind you all that tax day is soon upon us, so I hope you’re well on your way to getting your ducks in a row, so to speak, and to mailing away those poor taxes, and as quickly out the door as is reasonable and legal.
and now for a few fine words from our sponsor, ladies and gentleman: here are the partners
Clampitz, Pittance and Shrew, with some helpful
tax season hints. we’ll be right back in just a jiffy.
*The history
of Monopoly can be traced back to 1903, when
American antimonopolist Lizzie Magie created a game which
she hoped would explain the single-tax theory
of Henry George.
It was intended as an educational tool to illustrate the
negative
aspects of concentrating land in private monopolies. She took
out a
patent in 1904. Her game, The Landlord’s Game, was self-
excerpted from briefs are best (just to get that out of the way)
the way i mostly think i read books is as a writing tool, like breathing (is to living, as in): reading inhale, exhale output writing. it’s okay to forget there are any number of other fantastic reasons to read because all of that happens anyway, so long as i read. but i am thinking how in this way, the reason, because of which, to write, and on that subject usually not thinking anything through beyond that (because it works, i love doing it, i appreciate output, mine, too, or probably especially, but for different reasons which i also think too much about, but is not what i am talking about here), so, well, it is in this way that i am such a user, and i really think of this, for a lot of reasons, but mostly because it’s true, it is an astute observation i have made of myself, and those can be good, too, right? and that is definitely what gets me to do it, why i’m doing it, reading and writing, this is the discipline for me, it is what gets me there almost every time (and almost always happily), and i am aware of this in a constant way, it is always in here, maybe not at the exact front of my mind but certainly not too far towards the back of it: that i’ll need my fix, and i know that getting it is a must. i am a mere connection of moments. and this sort of output, which i am at least immodest enough to think of as a means of giving back, even without knowing at all on what level (and, just for the sake of argument, why would that even matter?). if you’ve ever seen a quote by you at the top or bottom (or it could even be in the middle, so in actuality anywhere nearby) one of these ditties, then please know that’s my cognizant appreciation of the immense and intense value of what you give me, which i, in turn, use. know that what you give me is so big that i am compelled to recognize it, from the tiny stage around and about which i'm so often swinging, as a way to say and show my deep gratitude and as a way to perpetuate your good stuff, of which i can never get enough. the good stuff. the best and most purposeful, most useful stuff of all. and i don’t just mean this as an advert to lure you over to my words so much, either, except that you’re here now, and of that I can become aware and most appreciative, but also, because, truly, i can only aspire to, or can only hope upon hope, that i might on occasion, or at least once or twice even, get similarly used, and i mean on any level that has any kinship whatsoever with what your good stuff and, therefore and also, what your very presence, your existence, does, has done and keeps doing for me. so thank you so much. because when’s not the right time to show a bit of gratitude? that’s something that is impossible to exhaust. so i do try to express it to you all in the ways i receive it. that is an act or a gesture so big and yet so easy that — and i write this as lightly as i can but in earnest, and with apologies if necessary — even a user like me can do it now and again.
a. nothing goes first (pay no heed to order) I leave my wallet on the lawn then my heart changes —Sophia Dahlin
b. let’s get theoretical and have a blast doing so
c. let’s make lists to end all lists (with only that goal in mind)
Don’t matter what I’m thinking.
Always on top is that don’t matter.
Matter, then. All matter. Be. Show (Scene) . Create relevance.
Hold hard to one-of-a-kind (not the hardest, by all means not the hardest),
make, do (never make do!), also, connect the dots, stuff like geography, cinematography, poetics, architecture, the mind of any museum (all of them!), diet (living forever!), planets (planetary escalation, planetary orchestration, planetary integration, BALANCE (all times. feel. meditate.), FEEL, foregone,
take a breath take a break feel FEEL
okay, now listen. take a breath take a break feel FEEL
nothing goes without saying.
everything always goes (fine, e.g.: multiverse).
Always. always. ALL WAYS. find them be them all in all in always.
only I exist (i) (only) (always look directly at this, it is not
NO ANARCHY in everything anarchy physics is anarchy always remember and look at this at all times.
A line is space within a space
(space is all. space is open. space is nothing. pace is all. nothing.)
it’s a living, life. live live (sound out if I’ve). live live (sound out I’ve if).
Choice is non-existent choice is existence laugh at this in all ways always it is not irony press hard for pleasure aha press.
What is seen from any point on this path is all beauty but not only beauty and also everything except beauty. Everything can be seen. Always. You will never forget to breathe. Don’t forget to see. Memory is. See and be seen is not.
See and be seen by any means.
some additional tenets:
1. always be on
2. pay no heed
3. all is always.
4. always is always on
5. capable of swimming through the impossible anarchy
6. structure goal do be all see open
7. as long as you want
8. (want is all / nothing stops / never is / never does)
9. structure goal do be all see open close doesn’t matter
10. open close doesn’t matter
11. open
11. open it up (up is down) (close up)
10. close
9. i am all. all are brief. brief is all. all is simple. knowledge is all.
8. i am all knowledge.
1. i am all knowing never no always no. no and yes are all and nothing.
Scene. (end of moving outward to accommodate everything).
Oh yes there is never a need to express everything all is always expressed and experimented (as with open as with close as with open it as with close it as with open up as with close up)
I AM ALL INCLUSIVE. I AM ALL. I AM. I. etc. TODAY
today concentrate on brief.
the brief equation; laws of brevity; endless brevity.
brevity is concentration.
i am was. born only once. stop anywhere. now erase this space. (try!)
this is a good place to start stop. continue.
THIS IS A GOOD PLACE. STOP. CONTINUE.
it is always okay. this is a good place to stop.
continue. retinue.
all dice move to spaces forward (aha this is a good finish)
Do Not (Ever) [Explain? Yes. Exclaim.]
H-O-W T-O S-T-O-P N-O-T
find all laughter (in everything is nothing)
(everything here fill it in all is already)
H breath whispers I is heavy and moves / try it always
