Purpose defies Interventions control-mania.

The sand took
its hard won place again.


Short of disasters, there are mistakes. When a sprouted feed bag spilled on the dunes, the horse refused to eat the gritty saved bits, thus its rider scattered his barley upon the ground. A week later, the park head happened by, and surmised what had happened, as these two events requited themselves in time. Fresh sprouts connected the drifting sand to a single place; experimentation connected what grew fast enough, to what would not be overtaken.

Bicycles were granted begrudging entrance to the park they would later dominate. Special permits to ride were brandished between certain days and hours, and a speed limit was mercilessly enforced. Policemen who had to provide their own horse feed, galloped after the offender, and lassoed them, removing them from their scant vehicle, which continued on, riderless. The metaphor was lost on passerbys.

"The self-disappointment of smoking again, is projected upon others who are only trying to help." he tracked the slow progress of two street people, moving their worldly belongings
Traveling and dragging their cardboard for sleeping, like blocky cutouts of themselves, reminds me we’re living in two dimensions. Time is an increment of what we’re afraid to encompass; the perceptual opening is the perchance portal fearless flyers arrive to depart through." And with that, he lit the sandwich of screens and DMT, and dove headlong into the oily plastic smoke curling from the bowl into his lungs. "Longer." his friend said. "Don’t breathe out yet." The Jesus look-alike nods, and puts his hands in full lotus. "Now!" He adeptly sparks the lighter, and plunges the feeble flame into the blackened bowl. "More." The manic swirls of smoke from the powder thickened until our pupils bulged; the adept coughed slightly, and restrained it. "Excellent." That was a massive hit. "The aliens are nearby." Then he slumped heavily into the couch, eyes dilated and twitches erupting at the corners of his mouth. The long-drawn silence highlights a small artificial creek’s burble, and the afterglow of plastic aroma wafting from the maestro’s pipe, as the maven psychonaut rummaged around ether worlds, peering for tidbits to retrieve. Finally, he whispered, "Interstices of space concurred in colors the human brain suppresses, to make out gray tones." The impact of an extra dimension makes the white balance wacky; functionally, black and white movies become impossible to watch. It seemed like an interesting development in human consciousness "That’s all I can say for now." For speaking is difficult from the beyond; the vocabulary at your brain’s beckoning is slanted horrendously towards the mercantile.

One got the impression her spare change evaporated into chemists; as nefarious candle burning defined his existence, in a sense. We tracked decayed leaves throughout her house, which slowly dried into rock hard paste. I wanted to introduce her into herself, beyond the black and white the psychonaut sought, toned radically with interstellar space. The person inside the person was engaged looking up the world of Dimyati, which was a single word written on a broad swath of paper, by a mystic, she claimed. Her terms scatted like shrubs looked harried and displaced, like an over-planted botanical park gone wild; non-native phylogenists soap-boxed mysteries into sanitary napkins, for serum and tissue disposal; tools littered her gavel table, ready to extricate inert necessities with insensitive procedures deafened to positive cause and effect, beyond our ability to measure. His face loomed in her scribbled wrinkles. Islands mounted the ‘surface’ and technically, were born into our word structure. "I have sconced, that the order of thought, is averaged through hegemony; it ripples cross the margin of time perception is born to. The black and white metaphor is SF." [San Francisco] he wrote afterwards, with purpose and accident, having asked for and received, the living testament his movie is color-wise with. I was slightly dumbfounded. "So, when do you leave?" Her manic hands shuffled reams of disorganized paper splayed with technical jargons spanning eight or nine distinct disciplines. What do you mean me? I asked her. "Sounds like he was speaking to you, she notes, with some amusement. I liter the floor with leaves, to cement the thought into place.

Exceptionably dangerous-looking, thick-necked bulldogs haunt the café entrance, as Carlos Santana plays, the sound a living reminiscence of the art and experiences he took with him, into our version of a world he changed. Latino gang members watch for others watching them; interminable vehicles of thoughts beseech bystanders with slick paint jobs, and sexy lines, and they scan the social horizon for violence, meeting no eyes.

Relax. You need some nice cricket sounds to call you every hour, and automatically play across your phone. ‘Relax’. Nice conditioning when you can find it. The difference between you and me, is this freak show constitutes your real life, where I come in from the burbs, and the hypo-reality of card-swipe doors opening air conditioned corporate offices. Those are maniacal militants with an excess of hormones and firearms, whose formative early training involved life-destroying drugs, and broken homes. They think the same about us; the power we wield is an order braking the aims of their order; for ‘law’ is an arm of you and I, waging it’s a war on a feud which doesn’t involve us. Exactly why we didn’t need to enter this hole. Hey, who marched with the civil rights movement? Whitie has a role to play, showing some solidarity with the brothers. We’re here to show burb-lovers like you not to cringe in a drive-by gangland massacre. Nothing personal, you know? Besides, this place has the apex of tacos for blocks around, it’s dirt cheap, and their salsa totally rocks. You’re making me feel better already. Why is the server wearing a sidearm? Oh, he’s really the security guard at the bank on 18th. What’s he doing here? Serving you feel-good, dummy. You’re up, what are you eating?