Remonstrations on the Inquiries of Pelbath, Wizard of an Unknown Age : Entry 1

Pelbath woke with a sense of delusion at where he was, even though it was his own chamber in a Keep of his choosing, with moss strewn walls and tapestries and a sense of leather and oak emanating from its core, however the certainty of peace which the room provided was a ploy , for the man in the center of this room was like a spider in a web and filled with expectation.

Outside the city came to life, and creaking carts and hammering metal began to play like chords on the instrument of existence, rising with the sun in a natural symbiosis. Pelbath opened a volume seemingly at a whim and began to read. “……Relwin ordered a conscription and few survived to tell the tale, many have called into question the following expediencies promoted by his reign but few survived to remit the knowledge to anyone whatsoever.” A bland book, a bland phrase. Histories often, are the summation of miseries and peace and they lack the ability to do anything but convey knowledge, and knowledge without emotion is merely an empty vehicle. Pelbath read that in his mind rather than the phrase in the book and he felt like the grappling hook of logic was weak, tenuous and falling apart at its center, he felt as we all often do, a helpless buoy floating, but as we often do as well, he forgot that buoys stand as warnings and not superfluous gally gigs, for men often scrape them selves on the shallows but never report about what happens to them in highest places.

Pelbath was no member of any Guild of Mages, Pelbath would never accept such a nonsensical burden. The idea of certainty was an affront to him and to many similar minded mages, joining in something uncertain with uncertain humans struck him as an assault on knowledge itself , and the act of speaking to others brought sweat to his mind before it even occurred. ” The coward dies a thousand deaths” etc.

The door was knocked upon.

“Yes , what is it? ” irritably called Pelbath, unused to interruptions of any sort.

“Your wash sir, as you requested.” replied a miserable looking Halfling, clearly a slave to it’s master and filled with fear.

“Thank you, forgive me for being remiss , Im merely consumed with thought little one.” said Pelbath ” You need not worry of your behavior” he echoed, and the Halfling relaxed visibly.

Pelbath would never grow used to the idea of slavery, or the needs of men to have anything at all using such means, but the facts of life smacked him in the face , even in his parlor, but his response to said Facts was his own prerogative.  And his prerogative contained much, much pelf and much indecision.

The poor creature retreated , and after its shadowed exit, Pelbath worried over it’s destination.  Though disgruntled, Pelbath was not a hateful man, Power in all its ridiculousness had humbled him and given him humble lessons.

While taking his washed clothing from their simple olive drab packaging, a note fell from the pocket of a shirt left unwashed  amidst the bundle of clean linen. ” Fancy this, I’ve lived enough and been dead enough to know that this entails some nonsense and an adventure.”  Instead it read like a shopping list of a wealthy connoisseur of the mons pubis, lover of the clitoral range, a grasper after the finest most verdant nippled givers of physical ablution, it was a who’s who of the finest brides in the city, all of them exposed magically and embossed onto this sheet, with statistics along the side, and a holographic movement to their bodies which gave them life and inspired lust even in the lifeless tired frame of Pelbath. “What the Hades, why me , why this?” What “this” was , fell short of even wishing to be determined by Pelbath, he rummaged and hung his clothes in his armoire covered in dusty gilt (guilt) with his family armorial crest barely visible under ages of lack of hygiene.

After two pipes of the finest Tetra hydra cannabinoid plant he could procure in this region (specially cultivated for him by the Dwarven cave hydroponicist, paid for at a pittance, as the seeds were given by Pelbath to the horticulturalist and thus ensued a lasting semi-friendship), Pelbath began to think more clearly upon the subject of the unwashed shirt and the tarot of physical statistics he had un-needingly stumbled upon before even tea or pipe, before even thoughts of cheese and egg were allowed, before he could have his morning shit, before he could….on and on, “Where has your philosophy gotten you Pelbath, your study of bilocation? Shitless, with a bevy of perfectly exposed princesses oddly in your pocket when you are too old to satisfy even the mere thought of one of them, why? Better yet who? Whose is this?”

Try as he might he must not persist in thought on this, he had seen what he was like, a fool rabid when on an idea train, he would smoke too much, drink too much, think too much. The idea gleaned would had better have been gleaned from sober refusal of acknowledgement, a separate space not a space shared with a substance was what was required for good thinking, thought aloud as he unconsciously began loading his third pipe.

He began frying an over easy Thurg egg, simultaneously boiling slowly his bed of rice, and adding the particles of plant based analgesics into the yoke of the exactly over easy egg, lastly cutting into naturally octagonal shapes , his tomato gourd, afterwards sprinkling them with the powdered tusk of what was said to be the horn of the last Klodian (a race of uselessly Horned men who died out in a plague when first encountered by the Lexicographers), however it was more likely a mild narcotic and it served the purpose of a flavor additive as well, a double duty pleasantly given by nature to a mere thing.

After this a shower, all water provided by the aqueduct, a taxed service merely paid for and then received and if not paid for then not received, no one knew where this aqueduct came from, no one asked. Every day we ask no questions of the very things of life which we should question.

He donned his grey robe , checked his beard and neck line, “Blasted neckline” he muttered as he placed on his black leggings and high grey boots made of the skin of sixteen tribesmen who bet their integumentary system in a gamble with a Warrior ( Pog or something guttural if i recall)  long ago in his employ but since dead, needless to say the wager was lost, the shoes were comfortable and considered a not ill gotten gain, this is a hard world and those men would have died of gluttony anyways and had raped and done enough evil to deserve to be boots.

This was always the hardest part, opening the locks on his door and leaving his home, uncertainty lay outside even for the most mundane creatures, nothing, nowhere was safe, not even ones mind before one opened ones door to enter the Outside. Pelbath peered through his eyehole with a jointed mini telescope in case an assassin were to blow a poisoned dart into his eye. No one there good, he replaced the telescoping jointed lens and grabbed his bladed Halberd of a walking stick and three loaded and safetied poisoned mini crossbows, one dagger on either sleeve of his robe, in a leather case with a retraction button for instant use, and dark shaded glasses of his own make which alleviated his anxiety at being seen, heard, or in any way being notorious.

He was not much of a wanted man, but his fear of others wanting or otherwise believing things harmful and or terrifying to him and their secret passions kept him keyed up for action, as the world always seemed to pulsate with it, especially when you wanted nothing more than to be left alone.


A Long Return

These days I see no reason to bandy about anymore, I feel words our like scythes slicing outwards and I fear to use them, because I know other’s scythes are looking for me as mine were blatantly attempting to shadow their own movements.

At a young age I seemed to decipher a pattern of events, one which denoted a lie rather than an efficacious way of monitoring things.  I saw that the word Reality often meant what one wanted it to mean and that breaking through its feeble definition merely required breathing on Earth for one day and existing around others to see that it was a vapid nonsense to perpetuate.

I found myself a very animal, hairy, smelly if unwashed and full of himself to a degree  previous explanations do not give reason for.

It burns as if to smoke acid to  admit this , but it is a fiendish repertoire with which I’m familiar.

I want to reek of the mythic and invest it in every word and fiber of my bone. I also wish to never be so foolish as to believe in false Gods, and thus am sucked into a Greek type esplanade of emotion where everything I uphold is destroyed by what I convey through my actions.

Because I live as if God were dead, as we all do, and if he is, it isn’t conscionable.

I wish to never contrive to do anything. I wish to always spontaneously respond to events. This is deceptive to say, for it seems to imply I mean to not think, which is not the case. I wish to thinkingly roll into every situation without an previous anxiety brought on by foolish conceptions of “Reality”.

And days and days have brought nothing but more of this. As if some teacher of shadow was aping my steps and always giving lessons as I fumbled forward. And ghosts or  ghost like things abound in my day to day life. Just last night i dreamed a labyrinth and in its conclusion I spoke to my son and he was quietly dripping blood red tears from his eyes. Rather than waking in a cold sweat, I awoke calmly, an initiate of grey recollections and odd night infused auguries.  As I write this I recall the day a hawk’s shadow rode before me as I drove in my device toward town, it broke away to the music on the radio.

There is an odd stork like creature in an impromptu marsh brought on by winter floods that I and my son’s see as I drive them to school. There is a mystery about this unlikely creature in being where it is, which every morning, gives me an odd sense of Bulgakovishness which floods the day and makes it more positive.

I can do nothing but think of this creature as anything other than a preternatural prototype to all birds, an oddball genius of its ilk clinging against the most tenuous marsh provided by the crust of Earth. Today it was not there and the sense of Absence was like a large stone monument placed before my vision of the day.  Its tone by the way was grey and elegant, patrician-esque.

How odd the voices we must speak in to say what must be said, to speak of a marsh bird we must invent terminologies, for we know nothing of marsh birds. To say things on the nature of what is obvious, we must refer heavily to tomes of men who said things densely about the obvious.  Admittedly some things can’t be easily said, but things that can be, should be. Men waste time posturing and because of this there are cyclical repetitions in thought which should never have been. Because of this one will open books that were once aligned with ones thoughts, and see an enemy, and an embarrassing disclosure on your formative education.

I wake each day at 5 am.  I make preposterous plans against the day, I concoct Martial approaches to mundane affairs, I imagine my responses to friends queries in a sense like they were of the stature of Oaths made on Delphic Mounts. And there is always a knowing of something undone, a thread left unsown, a weird omen of something more, everyone goes to the party but no one feels like I do when they are at the party, and if they do nothing is said of it. A grand paranoid idea permeates everything, though no one had an intent, all is filled with intention.  And my brother told me I should write. There would come an end he suggested by his words, of this, of all, and this would be like an emetic, softening the way.

But the way remains as it was, and nothing is softened.

Meanwhile I struggle to try and find a way to make writing anything other than an quiet form of masturbation, something more than a shadowed pulse felt only by me, a night song sung by birds no one hears.  I always thought wanting things would make them more achievable, and yet I scrape out a meaning from ancient texts of men and women who wanted what I want, and of them , there are only scraps left. An echoing library of ‘Was’s” and “Mights” lining out the invisible musculature of concern. Even history for me has taken on an edge of fiction, for trust is involved and I have little.

The night settles in at my home, my wife jangling dishes in the kitchen, my son’s voices murmuring, an accent of the moon and the clouded shadow, all of it. I’ve drunk too much, but this was always a possibility, or rather I expected It was, and wasn’t afraid.

Often the weight and measure of family life is ported towards an goal which we are stricken by often, and suddenly. No one speaks vehemently on the subject of what ails them, they tend to be more voluble on what does not. Wasting permanent time on nonsense. And so when we have too much to drink we imply a heavier burden on ourselves rather than reflecting on our past achievements, we burden ourselves with a “perhaps” failure. Drunken remembrance is convenient, as all of it is, but forgetting takes a waxen art of chance which I’ve never known.

At 4 am, I wake slightly to take my stomach medicine.

At 5:45 I roll around knowing that I must read, shit, and look feverishly at the internet.

If certainty were an acceptable thing I’d laud us.  But it is not. Thus I question every act of a species which is geared toward a sense of certainty.

Failure is always comfortable, failure always reassures itself, failure always requires a defense.

Worries over pains and Diets consume me, Concern for my children and thoughts on the Present World and the Future create a quilted robe around my cerebral cortex.  In thinking of the cerebral cortex I  Googled a diagram of the functions of the Cerebral Cortex,  doing so I was whisked away and in my mind , a cold calculated Drs. voice repeated back the latinate names in a staccato, each psyllable a bullet rattling in a tin can, it assailed my sense of Spirit to see my mind so mapped, and succinctly labeled. Worst still, that It was labeled by Humans, a race yet to explain any First Cause. A race who’s only claim to fame is to make inferences from datum collected over aching millennia by randomized acts and a sense of something, the Something always different but always  replicated from the bones of the previous Something.

If only in synthesis we created an overflow from what was within but not out of some sense of post modernist fixed angst, we could circumscribe the Known, rather than groping in ebon night with ineffectual hands towards a mystery which need not be.

Morning Prayers

In the Ganges in the filth they wash away their sins,

in my bathroom i flush the toilet and wash away mine,

i can hear a train shake the ground , not a mile away, freight hurtling towards places, graffiti encrusted carts , art made by the poor denizens who haunt the urban train yards,

downtown the poor huddle together and steal from one another, they die quietly and without remembrance, when they dredge our rivers and lakes who knows what apathy will lie hidden beneath, modern bog people enmeshed in plastic walmart sacks and with duct taped ankles holding rotted shoes to their feet.

cell phone towers loom in the distance, their silhouettes dotting the countryside and cityside, all sides,

its reassuring to know that people in the projects can use their cell phones to call people who can’t or won’t help them.

I on my other spectrum with the pond i never use, horses i don’t ride, endless storage space filled with things i must throw away, a living insect intent on calling itself human, nay worse than an insect because of my humanity,

to hear falsehood echo in the night and do nothing.





For good reason, i have not had the urge to write for a long time, only to read deeply and drink deeply the draught which i’d let consume me.  But i cannot do this, it is a betrayal of thought to not reciprocate, even if the reciprocation is merely with the self or with possible future claimants who needed the reflections you fill pages with, however aimless they may seem to you.  For instance: who would have thunk of the importance of the  writings of Saxo Grammaticus, Bede etc. and yet they resonate as some of the clearest ganderings into a region of time which is unlit by the ambience of definition.

However, it is difficult to write down what is all around you, the perversion of the modern always seems an shackle to those who feel they are in  circumstances as of yet unheard. But i look back and  see only a difference in tools.

I fear my grasp of politics in my nation is gone, but i believe it is the same for the politicians, they merely reiterate.  They now play a dangerous game, a game many dead Roman Senators played, and double digits of greek Tyrants , they move more vast crowds than have ever before been assembled in ways as base as they have always been.  I used to be disgruntled by these men, but i believe television characters now have more legitimate power over the minds of people, and the producers who feed these characters to the people are like terrible stagehands on an theatrical production doomed to consummate an odd marriage between reality and fiction.

The very purpose of this is to digress, maybe i’ll think of what i’ve been reading lately, a smattering of Fantasy novels and short fiction, finishing Fermor’s second book of his trilogy Between the Woods and the Water ( a sort of interesting travelogue, ethnography book) , The Letters of the Younger Pliny, Plutarch’s Lives off and on, a new translation of Thucydides, and most recently an Oxford hardback copy of Gwyn Jones quintessential book, A History of the Vikings, wonderfully annotated and filled with maps and foot-notery as only the best books are.   So incredible is the continuity, not the fractiousness of human history. It is simply miraculous that so many at such times didn’t despair, that always there was one recorder, regardless of the temper of the Earth, or the gall of Caesars. Like a drum steadily beating  a rhythm , often discordant but prevalent in the hearts of all bipedal aspirants.

I have been a close friend to death  in ways which bear no discussion as of now, but have effected my abilities as far as my expression . Things when bereft of purpose or with a light shone darkly on them, an incisive reminder of loss , make it strenuous to share with others. Ive come to wish to be left alone, but also my ape like need for societal emotional confirmation is redolent on my skin, in my breath, these very words reek of it.   Part of the purpose i suppose of writing is to remove these delinquent thoughts ,which have no raison detre  in a mind dedicated to truth, or whatever constricted viewpoint of the truth i’m allowed to glance in my breaths expenditure. So what then? Will i be free after this? I doubt it, i’m sure i was already free. Like Montaigne says and this is a summation No one feels sorry for the man with the cure up his sleeve.

Odd this reclamation of ideas constantly going on, a very deluge of things i’ll never get to enjoy, but honestly that is what makes the process so incredibly edifying , the fortuity of all things. To this end even loss of what one loved becomes a lesson which might enrich life, even if not in the present instance.

i feel it is important to be instructed ethically by what appear to be the mere whims of fate but can take on a personality all their own if given to someone with imagination and great fears of recognition, for realization is the root of fear. Always a middle way to navigate, for if you deny the spirit you risk merely becoming another kind of fool, but if you deny logic and human rationale, then you repeal a part of your being as if it didn’t effect you , but it does, the denial will grow quietly like a boil in your skin and burst whether you give it a glance or not. I’ve since grown better at the excision of these boils and the acceptance that i know little if anything, but what i do know should be both beautifully and practically applied to the work of existence. This task, an odd one, seems to be the only one i can see.

And now as the darkness of the night waxes and i write this, looking back at today like a scavenger seeking remnants to achieve some synthesis, i know nothing of what i have written, it is as if i witness an purging of someones thoughts other than my own and stand aghast at it. The readings in my histories strike me as all too similar, i begin to have the feeling of a changeling, some malleable animal that alters its mind just enough to slip from its present.  But there is a pleasure in this, it is better than seeking in the night like a fool with no lantern, better than lying and clasping ones chest.

Ill health can change a person, can make them both depreciate and appreciate much around them. My health lies on grounds unsounded by science, i stand outside the realm of feasible folk with valid opinions, and so the enigma of this both frees and enslaves me.  Pain , both a burden and a tool, has branded me, and i spend each day learning to maneuver with it as dancers with fine tuning would do. One day my enemy will overtake me, as of yet i have feinted from his presence so often i forget that the waltz will end.

This period of existence is so strange. My friend is texting me on my telephone from Kenya as he goes on a Safari while the moon is just a hint in the sky to him, i can see it blood red and cloud ridden out of my window with Venus scarletlly in tow. And yet there is no gap in communication other than the one we would wish by our own inadequacy for social exposure.  The curse and blessing is simultaneous . I feel often like we were left unattended and unequipped and for no reason by nothing for no thought at all. I also feel like we were inveighed with an inimical need to supplant foolishness with goodness and a spiritual destiny, but these things run contrariwise to one another.

My great fear is that men will continue to cease to live, merely because of the fact that fear, something which can be conquered rules us. But it is a thing which lives only because of us. For I know of broken chains dangling and much of them. I know of the harbinger in the night, the lurking pain which might or might not be. The sting of an insect so heavy it bears all of the weight of our heroes, its exoskeleton reeling from the pressure.  I know of being on this sphere to such a degree, that all attempts at subterfuge in rationale strike me as children’s toys. And yet i am so naive as to be surprised by fate when it does what i wish not, when i want not. So foolish to invoke a God and see only myself and what i lack. I often wonder what i’ve supplanted, what migratory pattern i’ve fit, if anything i do is more than a movement in some vast diorama used as an descriptive tool in a higher realm. I wonder at feeling an animal, almost a skinchanger playing at something. Is it madness to feel such a way, or is it madness to say this is the way? I lean towards both.

How does one end what  one has never begun? I sought to speak of things eloquently but merely spoke of myself, but i wonder if ever i had any purpose but that. I wonder if eloquence is brought on by the need to self discover or to dwell painfully in depths of consciousness one would rather not dwell painfully within. I curse my wordiness and ability to slay myself before words and act as if i spoke true because i love the way it bleeds across a page like a war wound of victory achieved by an hoping sub-text warrior in an Asiatic prophecy, doomed to failure. But then i know, because of the sound of the thunderous night behind me that what i have done is bone good, my molecules sing in it, a vivification of value , immersed in the forced evaluation ensuing from baptismal word fire.

I will sleep again despite my fear of no breaths coming to me. Despite my father recently immersed in the earths brown all-sarcophagus. I have broached a subject with the universe which must remain open-ended until i die or witness a change i never expected.

Days and What to Do With Them- A Scheduling

Days and What to Do With Them- A Scheduling

I am a stay at home father and houseman, and the amount of stigma i have self inflicted  this staid modus with is shameful, especially when the history of the home is uncovered and the importance of a basis of peace and a place to uncurl your stress (which is the essence of a home), and has been the focus of thousands of competing philosophies since the rise of mans need to “get away” is brought to your attention.

Suddenly you find that your very equilibrium relied upon the way you sat papers on a counter or the sense of unfinished brokenness that is a home with nothing in a convenient place, books unable to be found at whim, maps etc.  I do not speak of course for everyone (obviously i don’t, odd that this has become a common disclaimer) for there are those who can see beauty in a mound of papers and no organization.

Why don’t i say instead that one must find the perfect balance of clean, but in seeking that balance one finds they always want and need more improvement, not just in their home but in their mind and the way it interacts within their home, which is in all honesty where are lives unfold, the place where we can be ourselves.

The way one begins such a task of change, is to merely take a step, whichever one, doesn’t really matter. Once momentum is developed only death will change your taste. After you have had an inkling of the peaceful perception  granted you by a clean home, unclogged by the mundane nonsense you’ve already taken care of in an unconscious manner while you were able to consider a line from Herodotus,  Suetonius or whatever it is you read. Breaking you will be an impossibility. Only the afterthoughts of a God would hold you in thrall of fear.

One begins to realize that they live in an autonomous kingdom of self and it is important to have an immaculate place to practice a justice unto your own mind.  I suppose i could give a schedule, and begin by telling you television and the internet are Beelzebub’s teats.

The schedule is as follows ( loosely) :

  • Awake at 6:25 , make coffee and look at list made night previously
  • Perform ablutions as necessary
  • Try to ignore the  juxtaposition of what is odd upon what is basic
  • Crush your heart and hold it in until the inevitable
  • Let the green of grass grow like moss on the grave of the dead monkey emperors
  • Persist and defeat the purporters to dynasties

My list is my list but yours can also be yours, and what is within it is what defines your day. And this makes sense as we constantly make lists in our heads anyways, but these list are often unfulfilled and tenuous, reliant upon our energy and not upon the efficacy of permanence ( or rather semi-permanence) provided by  paper and or electronic reminder devices (if you’re a Nazi).

And let it be known that in writing this i took two weeks off. Reason being that it is unnecessary to give things a place in your constellation of thought if they are mere remonstrances to a fact (even a fact which is mere allusion to the false). Ive found that as a being on a green earth breathing air, i consume not air the most, but thought. And often nonsense thought, on worry and pointlessness. When i could have been creating something beautiful, i instead built a palace of worry and inevitable collapse.


No need to be all “perforce “.

One can change.

The lie is, Home is what you buy.

Home is you, and what you build within you.

One can always be at home, the hearth burning, a sense of a poet reading in a dusky light in your brain.  A freedom known, so untoward as to almost be pornographic compared to the lie of what we experience daily and give the false appellation of freedom.

One grows ashamed of waving flags when one knows that they never weaved a flag for themselves.

I read folk of the past which we venerate and I’ve yet to see anyone present a unity , be it Herodotus or Thucydides, ( he with his tangents and the latter with his mathematics of human behavior almost to be as Braille) or Russell or Toynbee or Durant, or Gibbon or Braudel, Barzun,Strabo,Hecateus  etc.

Mere inference is the basis of history and all thought.  One cracks open a nut and acts as if it were the very explanation of the  nut.  As though there were a renaissance of it which never took place except in charity of nonsense, we’d still elaborate it and celebrate it in a carnival regardless.

Burning echoes.

This deference we give to abnegation will always be beyond me, but also an effervescent eke of me, an iteration .

Ones purpose is always noticeable, whether one be a fool or genius, there are but a few rules.

Organization though often snidely scoffed at even by me, is quite literally a key to a door of perception, and id say the act of finally getting organized and realizing its freedom is beyond heroin in its expedient satisfaction.

I must say Im still getting organized, this ill thought attempt at an essay with a point is a mere iteration of this truth among many others perpetrated by me presently ( and i am sure in the future) , yet worthy is the task completed even if it is an errand one ran for oneself, even if things have no equivocal social value. For honestly the scales with which we use to measure value should be individual and thus the need to organize is as well, and the need to moralize etc.

Let it be said that the world does not seem to feel this way, or rather let it be said that men yearn for freedom unconsciously but seek adherently the slavery they dispossess in ideology. Me personally, i struggle to find my own style and ape the past as if it were an ideal rather than seeking my own in a pertinent fashion, i rely too heavily on the ways of others instead of plying my way as a foolish example.  Not everyone can be Socrates and suck down the hemlock or Cato or Seneca, not all of us can be crucified for what we believe. Some of us must be placed in an invisible crucible in perpetuity until we find ourselves dead and surprised, and like Vespasian jokingly emit ” Dear me! I must be turning into a God!”






Let us speak on the subject of what it is to be, here and now in this macrocosm, all of the social expectancies and oddities bearing no actual pertinence but which are so life changing in consequence, that farting at the wrong or right time can alter your destiny and that of your progeny.

 Lately Ive been reading every damn thing I can get my grubby  sedentary stomach developing hands on and Ive found a general scheme. A scheme as if perpetrated by  Historians and Literati to pressure and inculcate social inclinations, to create ideated circumstances and place them upon history and explain it thereof , rather than looking at it in the thousands of different modes necessary.  The lens of time alters all.  Fools , such as we , know this but smash forward like aurochs or lumbering Titans out of myth.

As Eiseley says in his  The Firmament of Time, Custom was developed to make up for mans inability to rely on instinctual memory . And of course this has served us well with our weak frames and ability to be smashed to death quite easily. But  Always the need for some Totemic avatar of ourselves has festered.  I am a firm believer in the importance of Custom as long as I know that the reason I ascribe to it is both harmless and arbitrary. I will not join hands with groups of persons wishing to do what i hate and know is evil,       (there is no virtue in herd thought nor can there be) but also i will not kill myself with guilt over my forced adherence to custom and a Nation State , however painful and odd it is to exist within one, especially with a set of morals and any type of sight or sense at all.

Where does one go from here? I mean from this time period, and yes it seems so remarkable to us now, this time we live within, but know also that it always felt so to all who looked toward the future and had even a breath of a thought.  And you hear so much talk of  Future and Destiny. But why entrust such things to Beings incapable even of sucking the marrow out of the wee bone of the present ? Men so easily confused, as to worship both Science and Various Gods simultaneously, will venture odd attempts at prescience while ignoring a literal massacre of all which they would wish to give the future , before their very eyes, this and much like it.

Never will you see a consciousness so easily written off as the one we have been given.

The odd and inexplicable blessing of possessing this Thought Ability, regardless of First Cause, is miracle enough to continue the odd  chemical reactions of your flesh and greet death open handed, for surely there must be more of an adventure. No on after all knows what single cells think or atoms. And who hasn’t felt a rib bursting emotional inclination which moved them beyond their sense perceptions leaving them empty of the weak sense of causality enforced on them by the nonsense of custom,setting them free for a time which seemed an eternity but was a mere frame of inhalations in the cinema of your life? How does one explain such senses? Except with Neurology talk, all of which is essentially men using lights to study sections of the brains reactions, but again it is as if we look at the surface of a lake and pretend because of this we also see the Bottom, the Bottom however in reality remains quite  muddied .

I do not in any way wish to delineate the glorious Science and Study of mankind, the incredible Thinkers, Artists, Mathematicians, and Dreamers who have clearly out-thought me and rank in a subcategory in History, as Borrowed Personalities in History Books given us by Men with Agendas. But Alas this is the set up of things, truly the meek  have already inherited the Earth and they’ve lit it afire with their feeble grasp of the Essence of Being and it has weighed heavy on the mentality of All, and All ever since labor under  inordinate burdens. Never once have we been privy to the key to merely enjoying a full stomach and general goodwill in a real sense to our fellow humans, but we can make a huge heap of a monument towards ourselves nonetheless.

I have to hope there is something noble in that monument to selfhood we’ve erected, or I have to think that this is a disreputable affair, this Past Worship and the Future could be much different. Honestly i could think anything, which is the eking beauty of it all , Consciousness , Flesh as an odd Outfit one is Harnessed with until another Journey, all of it so odd but so nonchalantly embraced by all, as we meander about and we hope to continue to pace on the orb we found ourselves upon.

Come Spring , Ill have me a Mountain

Come Spring , Ill have me a Mountain

The sky was like dawn trying to break all day, and the grey of its lack of sun was not in any way a counterpoint to joy, the miasma inspired thoughts and pleasantry, a hiding need to lurk indoors.  Now the rain pours down, and the horses muscles in the pasture gesticulate and shake it off of them like the invisible. I watch them like an equestrian obsessed psychopath, their nostrils flare: a poems opening, or a bad and pornographic escapade.

My home is a warm navel which i cling to, and outside the chaos of what i  do not control takes place,  totems have been disenfranchised of their godlike power, in here I’ve witnessed the fall of realities held so dear, watched fools riot over victory, and men who have lost the greatest game hung up by their innards in what we call popular demonstrations.

Here what is humane is merely what is expedient for those avoiding guilt. Here, power is nonsense peddled the correct way, given yearnable flesh. They’d have us take for pleasure what is clearly pain but slowly given.

Everything is replicated and we have all been told there is a way, when clearly there is not.

My oddness robs me of the comforting touch of narcosis brought on by sleep , I roll around two hours a night with a cancerous pain in my heart and i lurk like pythons in the branches of nightmares, running endlessly in labyrinths of repeated actions, these are called dreams but they rule the night so i say they are real, as i must exist half of my life in them.  Ive no patience with Jung or Freud when it comes to this, as far as i can tell they mapped the dreams of day squandering fools who were mostly bourgeois functionaries, as if one were to dissect the reaming dreams of Jeff Sessions and find a meaning for the whole of man, a template which to apply.

And prose, that broken mechanism i use to float my thoughts down canals of clogged nonsense , it is hindered more by our control of it.

We used to be constrained by the structure of poetry , now we are constrained by the overly free use of verse which has no end and eats itself like an ouroboros. Everyone imagines themselves some genius no matter how shit their skill, everyone gets a medal, everyones a poet though they suffer less than real poets. One could come home from a war a coward and receive medals for mere participation.

In my mind i wonder what silent prison I’m supposed to send these thoughts to, what oubliette would be sufficient? Is there one? I think not, one begs before the monuments of what we construe as truth , imploring them for one more go round, Please! one says.

But quiet answers, like the voice of god.


Appeal to the Lord Our God

Appeal to the Lord Our God

Can barely type. Feel like my mind is lost. However my urges for ethical equivocacy have not been lost. A burning need to explain rationally the death march echoing in the breeze, the constant death to life spurted in the air by everyone, this yearning silently towards an end so terrible disturbs me, so subtle, we know it not until we lie in bed, even then it is nameless but is real. How can one burn like a cigarette? Why is my skin sweat encrusted? Why do i care? Who is me? One need not do acid to feel this way, merely quit the meds you were prescribed. All of the sudden God breaks in and shatters your joy, with his bare naked reality he crushed my breath and smothered me in a hot mess of John the Baptist smelling bullshit . And all of the self assured nonsense panderers wandering about with science medals and degrees provided by the least sense makers tell me how to run my shit as i run my shit minus them quite well, and they’d provide me the rules in which to be myself and id deny them, id die to be myself, and it seems i might.  My temperature 101 wondering how all the authors i liked did this, how they died after the things they did, while still living. Wondering how men followed the lead of other men, as i watch men do just as i think they wouldn’t, burning pyres of joy embracing deviltry and ignorance.

But God deliver me, if you can, from my own grasp, free me.

As it is, i hear you merely as an echo in the wind……. a bump in the air conditioning a sigh from the lips of a dog.

I act as if i weren’t scared, but fear runs up and down my spine as it always will, because i stand in awe and life is incredible and terrible.  I witness death vicariously, though I’ve palled my bear, troubled myself with the dirt burrowing of my fellow mans remains. Even yet i wonder if more was possible, if i merely missed their breath soul wisps heading Godwards by a mere inch or through lack of faith was blinded.

Ive witnessed bloodless bloodbaths. Been privy to people killing themselves but acting as if it were a lease on life they’d renewed. Seen such Nazi realities as would set back the most inculcated veteran. Been accused of the vastity of horsepiss, implied by the license granted the new and fresh monger of whats considered real.

Id have me write more politely.

Id have me write like Charles Lamb and or De Quincey but they’d hate me for such words , undisguisedly they’d bear a brunt of hatred towards me as heavy as a Huns shoulder.

And id hate me for mimicking ape like the wordy-lovey ness of men Im alien to, the system i grew up with so alien to life, so helpful in creating rebellions numerous flooding the backwater with anger expressed incorrectly.

I often wonder how we/I came to be and why.

If to no purpose then so be it, but if to a purpose then which?

Why burn us like candles, why set our own wicks aflame to no avail? Scream into a darkness that muffles.

And i read the greats, who are no more great than you and I, and I feel no closer to the verge of the crest of what they speak of. What guidance? What urge can take us to such place? I graze it like a bullet and fall dejectedly off the course.

Its been four days now of iced freeze and an entrapped state of me and my two sons in the same place. Ive not been able to send them to their designated indoctrination villa for the day, they haven’t been able to silently applaud a flag and the deaths of god knows how many for what reason, for 4 days.  Ive read a few books and been surprised by the malleable evil of the world even so that I’m not a fool and no better than to have harbored beliefs in a world with no safe harbor for any belief and an ever-changing tide of nonsense fluctuating from in and out of every shore of our minds beach.  Im also happy but it is of no note and beggars no description, and i can’t belittle it with metaphor, it is like a burning brightness that no grey can enter , a charged statement said quietly in a dark room, physical contact, convivial feeling: almost as if God whispered to you.

All sit and await a heaven ignoring that which floats at our very heels.

Forgive Us.


We Cannot Ride to Battle –

We Cannot Ride to Battle –

We live truly in a society of victims, and often the victimizer is an extenuation of ourself promising to be the hero we require. Our governments gaslight us all. As far as I truly know other than reports from screens and books I’ve read by ancient historians and modern , the various places on Earth might not even exist.  My reasons for killing people on them exist even less. My reasons for killing anyone more and more strike me as non-existent and the need to defend such a thought the highest foolishness, a thought I’m merely translating from my combination of Tolstoy and Thoreau, Seneca etc.

But you have been put far away from the trouble as if you weren’t the epicenter. And no you never wanted this, but if you woke in the middle of beating a small child with your fists and wondered at what you were doing would you not stop? Or would you continue to beat them while you rationalized the occurrence ? So too, should one apply themselves with compassion to the world and our brothers and sisters contained within it, prisoners and freedmen like ourselves, no different, merely tongue movement and voice box alteration, our genetics so similar that if we all died and left the globe, we would merely fertilize it with the exact same amount of chemicals per human.

I cannot live without my screens now though, the hook is deep. I like you, am no different. i find myself chanting the mantras I’ve been fed, suffering from delusions of the glory of sacrifice, for an organ of central control.

But did God not make it apparent with Abraham and Isaac that our sacrifices were unnecessary (aside from the poor Ram whose head was caught in a thicket) , that our deaths before god were unwanted? As Pascal states, a lot of the old testament as we call it is figurative, many of the battles spoken of represented as spiritual and physical incarnations of failure (having to kill the ultimate failure) and the books written by men are filled clearly with the competitive nature of men, and clearly they are written by men for men who asked them to write them. This is what we use as a litmus?

But what do you do? Today i take my boys to the school, there they will pledge to a flag i know the meaning of all too well, as it means what all flags mean, control over those who stand beneath it as it waves.  I too have been trained. I was at Ft. Benning when we began our wars in the Middle East and never stopped, I was in the vanguard of people lining up, i would have never joined had i not some patriotic inclination, and my other quieter motivation was to see this “enemy” up close , see his world so different from mine but the same. In retrospect i am glad of my falling out with the military, not that I’m a coward in the sense of running from bullets ( though this is logical in any and every circumstance) but I am a coward when it comes to killing men at the order of a fool i don’t even trust to run a region of land, let alone a battle or the reasoning behind one.  I knew something was wrong when we were all united on issues which should have caused division. When we forgot about racism ( not because it wasn’t happening) and began armament ( and never stopped).

My son stood at the door while I lectured him on the fact that we have no real boundaries other than economic and those are for convenience of reference rather than in  a real sense. They apparently teach that these boundaries are solid, as if vaster and dumber gods lifted walls to separate people into both fantastic and shitty spots. We both had a laugh, kids can be so real, men , women, so defensive, gotta keep those feelings of righteousness going. I mean hearing ” You bomb the shit out of kids on a daily basis, like no lie, pay taxes for it without question because you can order shit from Amazon” is a hard thing for an adult to hear but a reasonable thing to a child who isn’t locked in a grid of subservience as of yet, merely in training for such, by my sanction, fucking hell.

I watched children fold a flag, i thought of all my ancestors who died for it and rather than giving the flag the credit i gave their dead spirits the love they deserved by according them the reality of the situation of the falsehood of a colored flag meaning something about them.

I tell you the greatest war you will fight will always be among your own people. Jesus isn’t the only person to have thought similarly but he is correct, a prophet is most hated in their hometown. No one welcomes a truth sayer, all welcome a huzzah man, a liar and beast, willing to make loud noises , fill you with the drunken spite of hate that feels so pleasant when its on! But when you’re in a trench with lice on your dick, it seems so much less realistic, and patriotism the self supporting idea of fat nations, of fat men, fatly being fat on the skinny of others. I doubt your grandfather told you of the fields of furrows sewn with dead men and living simultaneously, he was too embarrassed. Why wouldn’t he be? His explanation was a mere shrugging of shoulders, “These men said to me i must do the thing i did far away but now we have made a movie and it is time to move on, now men in Germany are our friends, don’t ask why they ever weren’t i know nothing of such, i merely fired the gun.” . And so we shrug ours.

Forgiveness is in order, a world healing. A coming to terms with our ability to love, a sheathing of our opinions and our hate.  For the planet cannot support such beings, and will not, as we our learning.

Control those who seek to legislate you into apathetic numbness, those who have insulated you from truth to their own benefit.  Tear down the walls they’ve erected, let us begin anew.

The Infamous Thing

The Infamous Thing

Ill tell you true why i write this. One day i will die, and i know not the day, and what i have thought will die with me but these pages and they only a while. For nothing is permanent.

I write this because it must be said, because i am possessed by nature itself to say what is true of it, for it has so few defenders and often they are misguided, they defend themselves thinking they defend reason.

I write this because men still fight in armies and never ask why. Because Men still state the will of god with one hand and caress the bodies of underage boys with the other.

I write this because no one in power wants anything but power and all of them who say otherwise are liars or blind. I write this because i am not afraid of anything man can do to me, i write this because my sons must know their father though not a wage earner a believer in the system which they needed to uphold their little bodies from starvation, was not a madman, but that the world is mad, and they must not consider it true, never, not for an instant. I write this because i will have no part in slogans from any group for I am one man and i live my own way. I write this because id see all men free. I write this because i can buy a blood diamond up the road at four different stores. I write this because the system is truly Evil and i walk among it and keep my mouth shut, because if i didn’t write about it….id scream until i was blocked away in a dungeon in a gatehouse near the Kennedy sex tunnels under the Whitehouse( that mixture of architectural monstrosities).

I write this because i am no longer afraid, i have unidentified sicknesses in my cells, what else can be done to me? Why not cure the world while dying of what Doctors call apparently nothing.

So let us pose  this question? How free are you, truly consider it. Every social media outlet i have observed with this in mind has been the rattling of chains, people getting hundreds of likes, their sickening but forgivable humanity ostracized making life into some kind of endless suicide. Im no Freudian, but i suppose its because i didn’t have to repress my sexuality to such a degree that i inveighed all of my theory with it.  I do however ascribe to the idea of a workable framework of psychological consensus amongst groups of men who are truly the only ones who know what they are talking about and therefor the only ones who can say ” This means this.”  …..If a theorist dies in a forest does his theory die? etc.  Ex: are you so free that the oddity, discombobulation and fractious way I’m writing this bothers you not at at all?

Are you free enough to know these are words, your flags fabric, but your fellow breathing mammal brothers: the flesh and blood, with ribcages rising and falling slowly in their rooms just like you who we bomb everyday, and i mean everyday in an endless war to support a machine which is out of control. Are you free enough to recognize that? And you Christian? You are no such thing, in a way Nietzsche was right in saying  ‘ the last christian died on the cross’ , as no one has represented him as they should since he died, even saints are filled with misunderstandings of reason, most of them mad. I say also Christian, you are no Christian if you embrace the killing of a man over the words on a table far away by two men with two different mascots. I call you children. I welcome your differentiation, for i know God must be on my side otherwise he is the Devil and all is for naught.  Atheist, you do not escape derision. You have made a religion of belonging and a sense of undeserved intelligence seem a good and ok thing. You have created an idea of science as finished, and therefor embrace a clearly and presently false dogma. How much more dogmatic  the man who invents reason and says it is beyond you to understand it.  How much more intelligent is he who insults the beliefs of another because he has no argument other than his convictions ( without evidence all can agree upon in a way that is inherent ethically) which mean nothing and die with him like the wind.  I accuse all of you of being false. Including myself, myself most of all. Ill head the pack. I beg the Grace for our actions. In my mind i see dead children, mounds of bone, blood, factories filled with screaming cows and hammers and men in plastic suits, this world is a nightmare and it is all unnecessary.

How long will we sit by and watch fools misallocate things?  Acting as if it is merely the whim of fate rather than the very hand that our wants and needs guide, like a machine doing wrong which we manipulate from afar and therefor distance ourselves emotionally from. But nevertheless the machine is ripping, tearing, gnawing, leaving detritus and nothing in its wake, and the nothing mirrors us, resembles us. The furrows it digs for the crop it wishes to raise our vile, and its sickening bloom is overwhelming us. It, We, All, can take no more.  I refuse this commerce, i shit on this industry, i laugh at this dogma and i spit in the face of the lie called politics and majority rule. The irrational trying to explain itself is often the gloved fist of an implement of power in a dark room asking questions to things it will never hear for its ears were designed only for lies.

I am sick from thinking / writing this. It is like I’ve battled myself, seen my reflection in my accusations too often, am unable to walk away without a vast sense of culpability for i and my path are the hand on the pistol grip, and the pen in the fat red fingers of the human scratching a signature across another amendment of injustice to reap subtly across the land.

In such instances, one either dies, takes a stand or goes insane over time. There is nothing more to say on this from me for now.