The rampage of a rain-sodden existence hits---

Seems like, "evil" is often aligned in self-focus. "Good"— he says, considers a collective. We’re planting ideas like trees; my friend who’s a quiet genius of complex machinery and interconnected systems suggests, the motifs of mythological dilemmas funnel through our societies, extruding us into archetypes which adapt to the subtle cues of humans missing their plant nitrogen, or potassium to break their earthly boundaries, and penetrate each of our higher lives. A mobile bank of missiles a ludicrously-placed parade of dicks waiting to shoot offensively, their white-helmeted attendants ramrod straight, attending the vertical as charges attend concise angles of attack. I love the way he expands when he smokes, blowing rings farther than anyone would hope to I have to parlay the right thing to do through the egotistical maniacs, or else nothing will get done, and I’ll be the one who suffers. It’s a tricky business to shape these lumps into useful conductors, who’ll badger and crow our insight to others. These stubborn idiots take the limelight, because they’re human, and pathologically destined to derive strength from controlling others. It doesn’t matter I’ve been doing this job almost flawlessly for thirty years ... they think they know better, knowing little to nothing at all. They won’t hesitate to tell me an idiocy I’ll need to refute, at which point, they tell me I’m a control freak who needs to be taken down. If I left, this whole place would collapse, and no actual research would get done. The new administrators and overly-specialized professors have a deadly ignorance of real world issues. They couldn’t weld a broken rib in a gale to save their lives. No doubt, when I leave, doom will descend; and the question isn’t why, but when. For that reason, I’m staying a few years longer, to infect them with common sense.



"It’s a male problem in this society, that men have no responsibly." Rudy looks at the feminist spouting turnstile truth anything but quietly. And I suppose by shouting in a public place, you’re being responsible? I’m being equal. The paradigm shouts to me every day. Your flippancy shouts to me. The art on the wall shouts loudly. It’s a shout from start to finish, so I’m simply being here, and adjusting the color accordingly. I shake my head. What’s with you? Nothing.



I’ve come to equate art with suffering. So? That’s nothing new. The way, as Taoism suggests, is always down that path; what did you expect? I tried not to. I always listen to the one percent chance, and rule out the inevitable breech of reality it suggests. Anyway, who cares? So it’s fun, so it’s suffering. The latter is a prudence from the lure of expectations it’s meant to be anything else. What’s the problem? You’re not making a living at it? Duh. That’s the litmus of suffering, and success in this society. Living, per-se, isn’t it ... the problem is ... I don’t want to do anything else. Every scheduled event angers me; I curse at the slightest crush upon my time to engage more deeply with it; seldom am I exhausted, and must physically sleep. Every minute I wick from the limited hours I have, to basely support myself, angers the passion welling in me; I toil to try to expand my time, to suffer at the helm of that, which makes my existence miserable, because it is slowly bankrupting me. That’s a mess. You’re telling me.



Don’t be so hard on yourself. That’s easy to say; you’ve conveniently forgotten you don’t come from the future, and the past. The meld of ideas from the extremes into a height of a magic few acknowledge opening, is a mainstream suicide move. My pathetic accomplishments are flawed by the fear and ignorance I accost, to ascribe to. The reality we laud, is the one of animals, but less than that, one unconnected to the earth and sky. Were we aware of the teachings we’re constantly grinding to ash [to hide] we would be horrified. We strode by a early middle age crack fiend with his teenaged runaway girlfriend, as he wiped himself next to a dumpster. It’s disquieting how easily we run from etiquette, and self-respect, to who cares?! Wadded napkins littered his homemade toilet, as if he’d missed, and she pretends its vulnerably, business as usual. I think, girl ... how did you get into this? His tats are runes; I wander tissue scarred vied and shouting the piano keys of an abused, vagrant life ... a moment before Rudy’s listened to Tom say, I think a few people recover from broken hearts, they never know they had. Like what? Hard to imagine it’s transparent, that smashing to bits. As kids, he goes on ... our parents shatter our selfless love, in so many ways, its hard to count. Sexual abuse, abandonment, judgment, forcing foreign beliefs on us ... those are the recognizable cues. The preponderance of them are much more difficult to define. Children are subtle instruments and unformed bricks; the partner of ignorance and innocent natures breed the formation of saints and devils alike. Parents are crude instruments of recollection, of the process we were broken to ride. It’s not surprising we’re mad, and pass the madness one by one, on. Few actually reconstruct themselves, from their childhoods.



I like people who earnestly hide their neurotic tendencies on their sleeves, hoping with shuttering fear they’ll be seen. They attract me as flies blunder to flowers, dizzy on the pedals of roiling and riotous colors. They alternately slap, and reward me for appreciating what they covertly shout, afraid I’ll prove my worth, by looking deeper than they can. This process devolves to hatred see-swinging the irrationally-ecstatic, in rapidly-increasing ellipses. If the eulogy of this union is love, I’d be surprised, yet I persist in exploring its fringes, until the gravity of drama sucks me in, shields down. The fiery explosion warms those nearby, frozen by childhood scars. Lightning broke the instant I wrote that. Somebody dropped a glass, which clattered metallically, yet remained whole. Thunder pealed the occupants, and then, the double rainbow. I jostled a man with a laptop, so he’d look. Every woman who walks in the door is aware of people watching, and self-consciously adjusts her clothing, to either hide ‘fat’, or show off curvaceousness. Funny to watch; the cosmic judge is arbitrary, misled by endless variables, she/he threw the referee role to each of us, long ago.



The sun scorches our inability to stand up straight, and doubles us over. The years pile upon themselves. Notables fill ledgers yellowed by notables beneath them. Muses list us in ordered ranks death trumps the cards of; one era’s hero becomes the next one’s enemy. The few things which move us determinedly through life are fragile at best; we use our resources to keep them alive, to assist us. They are life’s fingers grasping the divine edge of destiny’s door. [Aman and a women amen.] The door shut to the street noise, unleashing a maelstrom of sound I’d missed.



My housemate : the empty shell men suffice, and exoskeleton of hard edged protection for the squishy insides, which don't
know what they want, or which direction to round to find themselves the popcorn kernel bursting from the inside,
confined by circumstances apparently out of control, in the form of agonizing limits to the expansion the soul thirsts

from and for, knowing the passion which needs to be satiated. In either case, it's all you can think about; the search,
and the discovery, if it's truly your own, are the same state of binge despair ecstacy and depravity. The loving kindness
of how we're good eclipses the animal state, when the fortress of the ego/id suicidal
grate is raised.