caveat emptor

Thoughts Culminating in Underwear

It's a new day, people. You've never breathed this air before, never stepped into this river. No more of the old stuff now, new day people. Throw away all the clothes you wore yesterday. Toss out your appointment book and your address book. Cancel all your old accounts. Change your name. Today is too new to rattle around in those old bones. Walk away from your shed skin and become the you you are today, shiny and new, open to everything that never was before. Nothing that happened before matters anymore.

I've believe in time yesterday, but today I do not. Today I see no difference between now and then. I guess I've changed. I don't expect to believe in time tomorrow, but how can I know? It's so far away and there's nothing I can do about it now. Time still believes in all of us, but it's not always on our side. If you feel the need of an ally on whom you can depend then you must be beside yourself. This treachery always betrays itself in the end, when all the true colors become clear and we see through all disguises. Make sure your underwear is clean, therefore, and that it matches.

I came into this post with nothing to say and I can't seem to accomplish even that.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Broken. Living on the Horizon.

Long ago he came to the mistaken conclusion that expectations in life were dangerous, to be avoided.

Staring down the road in front of him as the mostly empty highway passed by faster than the speed limit allowed, he drowned out his thoughts with loud radio music and rapid eye darting. If some notion started to whisper in his ear he would blink and glance hard to the right or to the left, out at the distant horizon and beyond. Sometimes he would shake his head abruptly, trying to clear some picture from his Etch A Sketch mind.

When he pulled into the driveway of the farmhouse, the only structure for miles in the flat wheat landscape, he clunked the old car into park and killed the motor. Two children, his, were tumbling enthusiastically down the porch steps toward him. Unfolding his tall, thin frame from the car and closing the door with a creak, he blinked at their approach, squinting at the sun far away behind them. His son, the four-year-old, crashed into his long legs and threw his little arms around them. He reached down and rested his hand on his son's shoulder, smiling absently at his daughter, six, waiting her turn. No words were exchanged. He hadn't prepared for the moment, hadn't given any thought to what he might tell them about where he had been, how long he might stay, why he would leave.

There is a kind of broken that makes every thought, every active engagement with life, more than one can bear. Every plan for the day feels like a setup. Every dream for tomorrow feels like a trap. Every conversation is an accusation. Every touch is a blow. You cannot listen and you cannot talk. You have to let the sights and sounds wash over you, wash through, keep going without you or carry you along.

He lives on the horizon now, too far away to see clearly, too far to hear you even if you scream. He is always on the journey and never arriving. He lives, broken, on the horizon. You cannot save him. You cannot even reach him. You should not even try. Bring your children back into your house and talk to them, laugh with them. Make your plans for today, dream your dreams for tomorrow, without him. Soon, within a couple of days, his car will be gone and you won't have to listen to his silence or watch his blinking stare ever again. He will take his bleak sadness, his brokenness, with him when he goes, and his story will not be yours. The best you can do for him is let him go. It's the only thing he wants anymore.

Long ago he came to the mistaken conclusion that expectations in life were dangerous, to be avoided.

Hello, friends. Bleak, I know. It's just what came out today. Whimsy will return, I'm sure.

Later. Love.

Nihilism Cannot Deny Itself

you cannot run away from everything

where would you go?

you must approach something

you might as well take it in your arms

and hold on tightly

right?

is that right?

you have to be somewhere

why not here?

you have to be someone

why not you?

you have to hold on to something

why not me?

the center of infinity

is everywhere and nowhere

forget nowhere

forget nothing

forget no one

forget no

give every a chance

at least give some a chance

at least give us a chance

this isn't what i wanted to say

but i don't know how to spell silence

in any language you can read

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Regarding Bill Hitler (no relation)

My imaginary friend, Bill Hitler (no relation), always told me, "If you can't think of anything to say, make something up." I cannot help but feel that, being imaginary, he was only trying to bolster his own position. One could argue that he had a conflict of interest. One would be wrong, however, since there is no Bill Hitler (no relation). I made him up. Why? Because I had nothing to say, that's why. When I can't think of anything to say I make something up. Why? I already told you why.

That first paragraph has many logical and existential issues. Rather than address them, let's just move on.

This paragraph is a poem. Not a haiku, since I lost count long ago. It's what one might call a "free-form" poem or a "prose" poem or a "bad" poem. It doesn't rhyme, not intentionally anyway. Sometimes, when you aren't sure how to say what's on your mind, you should write a poem. Just start typing and see what comes out. Don't worry about capitalization or punctuation. Just flow. Let it go. Don't worry about truth or structure or reason. Just, you know, talk. Please use strict iambic pentameter or dactylic hexameter or atmospheric barometer, though. Don't be a cretin.

I'm going to stop now.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

I Got Your Poetry Right Here

The sun? Well, the sun

Was, uh, bright?

I guess that will work

The sun was bright, we'll say

And as for the temperature

In case you were wondering

It was a little warmer than I prefer

But it wasn't terribly hot or anything

But enough about the sun

And the temperature

Surely you're wondering about the subject

Of this poem

The subject of this poem is me

And I'm going to tell you about this one time

When I jogged for many miles

From my house, across town, and back again

Well, I guess that's really about it

Man. This poem sucks.

It's missing something that you typically find

In poems

I'm not sure what it is.

Rhythm, maybe?

Or rhyme?

I don't know.

The language is a little mundane.

It's not metaphorical

And there is no imagery

It doesn't feel like a poem at all.

If, without fears or tears,

You show me your everything

I'll breathe you in like air

And carry you with me, away

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Just Tweets Today (as in Twitter Tweets)

Today, for lack of time, here are some recent Twitter tweets of mine. (Lame. I know. Sorry.)

---

She thought I was being ineffable, but it was just a misunderstanding.

  

A perception of unjust lack pushes us to chince so that we prop the scales, lose interest in balance, become selective in our reciprocity.

  

"Some things you know all your life. They are so simple and true they must be said without elegance..." from The Simple Truth, Philip Levine

  

We all, separately, achieve our disjoint unity. We are one, each of us.

  

iPod should totally have a programmable playlist feature called "Fugue".

  

Just wrote (tried) a Haiku about the limbo of life transitions: thistle down blown loose; alone like never before; fall and change and grow

• I'd like to paint the moon. Do I have to get permission from anyone? Who owns the moon? Does it belong to all of us? None of us?
• If you could paint the moon any color, why would you?
• Spray paint wouldn't really work in outer space, I bet.

Do you know how to use question marks. I don't?

  

"What's a girl like you doing in a beautiful place like this," I asked, but not really. I just stared at her from afar, wondering.

  

Broken Narrative: Sometimes you're so overcome with beauty that you have to hit the return key before a sentence is over.

  

My gun is a little cold today. (In the Beatles sense.)

  

If you could write the most beautiful Haiku in the world, how many syllables would you use?

  

I've got that feeling, like I really want to say something but I have no idea what it is. Sometimes this results in poetry. Just warning you

  

Some part of me totally expects to find out one day that David Bowie is actually god. I won't be at all surprised. He seems like god.

  

I've always dreaded Easter. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's my Messiah Complex.

  

I wish there were a religion called J. Just so there would be practitioners called Jists and a theology called Jism.

  

I'm not going to lie to you, I'm a spy working for the CIA. (Saying you're not going to lie isn't a big deal if you ARE going to lie.)

  

My company is raising money to help babies again. As someone who hates babies and fights to end the scourge of babies forever, I'm offended.

  

@Pixelation: Buying the burrito is a shameful waste of money. Eating it after you buy it is just good business sense.

  

Some writers you like for their words, others for their ideas.

  

Were I the operators of Facebook, I'd call the "Friend Finder" "Yenta the Friend Finder." TRADITION!

  

Sometimes I really wish emordnilap were a word.

  

I'm marketing a new drug for paranoia called "Strychnime." I know that looks a lot like Strychnine, but it's not, I swear. Just take it.

  

Someone called me "Pastor Scott" from across the coffee shop last night. I winced briefly & then spoke for 5 min w/ someone I don't remember

  

@snackiepoo: I think all reality shows should be called "The Biggest Loser." But then, I'm an elitist asshole. Hello, by the way.

  

The fleeting whim & humor of April Fools' Day totally compensates for the dull drudgery of ordinary life. Thank god for it. She is merciful.

  

Whenever economists on the radio say, "We need to get people borrowing and lending again," I always feel skeptical. Are we sure about that?

  

Are you old school Internet? How many of you Interneters have ever used a Gopher server, or even heard of one?

  

I'm considering signing up for the Internet. I hear there's some interesting things on there. I was on a Gopher server once in 1988. Fun.

  

When Paul McCartney dies (again) he's going to have a hard time convincing everyone.

  

My father was never a beggar. I never wanted to be like my father. I guess you could say, therefore, that I beg to differ.

• Accidentally vocalizing your joy at the suffering of others: Schadenfreudian Slip.
• Taking joy in the psychoanalysis of another: Freudfreude.
• Is there a German word that means "Taking joy in another's mispronunciation of Schadenfreude"?
• What's Erfolgtraurigkeit? It's how people who revel in Schadenfreude feel when someone else succeeds. Those crazy Germans and their words.

When "people just don't get it" that often says more about "it" than it does about "people."

  

Much though I'd love to frivol with you all the livelong day, I must away to work, lest in my preoccupation I become post-occupied. HA!

  

ME: I wish I had your self-esteem. / HER: I'm pretty sure it wouldn't work for you. It would only make you esteem me more. / ME: Impossible.

  

I am SO long-winded. I often use ALL 140 characters in my tweets. (Not in this one, it's short. In many others I... Oh, wait. This one too.)

  

Play Along Toys shipped 2000 "Cabbage Patch Kids" without gluing the necks to the shoulders. Heads will roll over this. http://is.gd/pQmc

  

The Barenaked Ladies should cover REM's "It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)" (and also their nakedness)

  

"Do Zen: A 12 Step Program"

  

"What will waiting patiently get you?" she asked. "I don't know yet," I replied.

  

Nothing makes me laugh like humor does. Humor is, by far, the funniest thing.

  

I had a breakthrough in my laboratory this weekend. I've almost isolated the gene sequence that will produce blood turnips.

  

Forgetting to say "Please" and "Thank you" is not a crime. It's a civil offense.

  

A tip: There's a service entrance in the Hotel California's kitchen. You can leave through there and no one will notice. You're welcome.

  

Time to wake up. (I'm talking to myself.) Time to fix me a cup of coffee. (Now I'm talking to you.)

  

The inventor of music is my hero. I love her. (I assume she was a girl.)

• Music is unhealthy. I wallow in it.
• Heavy metal has tinnitus.
• Blues music has the flu.
• Pop music is dyslexic.
• Grunge music is bipolar.
• Opera has thyroid issues.
• Rock music has lung cancer.
• Country music has diabetes
• Jazz music has ADHD.

I'm not sure if tornado season around here blows or if it sucks.

Listening to The Smiths right now. It makes me feel longy and haunty and empty with potential.

  

I'm not going to eat all of this English muffin if anyone wants the rest. I didn't bite this part. It's clean. It's good with the marmalade.

• I like something about Peter Gabriel. I think it's his brain.
• I was postulating for a moment that perhaps it is always the brain that we like about someone, but then I remembered about boobs.
• Some of the best people have both, but a lot of great people just have one or the other.
• Brain and boobs. The three Bs.

All my pancakes keep turning into waffles. I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong. I think I'll just switch to lunch. Love and such.

  

My blog is like poetry (in that no one reads it any more). That's fine. Even I don't. It has one of those rare "write-only" interfaces.

  

My like for Pink Martini is becoming love. I'm a sucker for what these people are selling.

• I just had a great idea. I'm going to start randomly insulting my Twitter followers with nonsensical insults.
• @Neilochka: You are quite possibly the worst hang-gliding pilot in the history of the sport. #nonsequinsult
• @bhockeyjesus: You call this macramé? My grandpa could knot better than this AND HE ONLY HAD 1 HAND! AND IT WAS HIS OFF HAND! #nonsequinsult
• @peefer: These apple tarts are the worst in the history of food. They are, in fact, the worst food in the history of FECES! #nonsequinsult
• @KHT20: Your doctoral thesis on Theosophy isn't worth the bathroom tissue it's printed on. #nonsequinsult
• @toadmaster: I'd rather be stabbed with harpoons than have my Segway pimped at your "Pimp My Segway" body shop. #nonsequinsult
• @evehorizon: Your Latvian Gambit at the 2008 Master's Chess Tournament was both inappropriate for the board & badly executed. #nonsequinsult
• @christophr: Your pole vaulting performance in the 2004 Olympic Games would have placed last IN THE SPECIAL OLYMPICS. #nonsequinsult
• @kbridge: Your donut shop does to Crullers what Hitler did to Poland. #nonsequinsult
• @TheBloggess: I'm not sure who you blew to get a job at the Renaissance Fair but Stephen Hawking juggles better than you do. #nonsequinsult
• @kerrianne: Your communist manifesto was so non-persuasive that I rolled it up and beat a worker to death with it. #nonsequinsult
• @sheryl_stephen: Having just heard your debut opera performance allow me to recommend you explore the joy of pantomime. #nonsequinsult
• @sheryl_stephen: Actually, I've heard more creative and artistic flatulence from gassy tax accountants. #nonsequinsult
• @Summerfred: I don't know how you became a cab driver but I'd feel safer being dragged to the airport under a bus next time. #nonsequinsult
• @snackiepoo: That you were World Bird Call Champ for 5 years baffles me. I guess where you live finches sounds like swallows. #nonsequinsult
• @sumdeedum: What do you recommend to get the taste of your "World Famous" schnitzel out of my mouth? Gasoline doesn't work. #nonsequinsult
• @Iron_Fist: You know what would go great with your chicken casserole? BULEMIA! #nonsequinsult
• @jwolman: If civilization ever crumbles and your shoe shop has the only shoes left in the world, I'll just cut my feet off. #nonsequinsult
• @akaMonty: You call that a Salchow? I've seen more graceful ice skating in hockey. AIR HOCKEY! #nonsequinsult
• @Kellyology: Wow. I think this Turkey Gumbo recipe you've created is a real breakthrough. IN LAXATIVES! #nonsequinsult
• All of a sudden I feel like Triumph the Insult Comic Dog. It's not a good feeling.
• FOR ME TO POOP ON!

Need to accuse someone of plagiarism? Google some really nasty plagiarism accusations and use them. It's more ironic that way.

• People who hate me seem, universally, to be trying to take me seriously or assuming that I take myself seriously. If I did I'd hate me too.
• Never, ever, ever take me seriously. (Just kidding.) 

---

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love. 

Dumb. Randumb.

I've become convinced, just now, that my opinions really aren't opinions. I am, as it turns out, the ONE person in the universe whose tastes are, in fact, verifiably correct and objective. The rest of you have subjective opinions, but I enjoy and prefer the right things. It's a good feeling, to be so right.

Gmail is foggy today. It must be foggy outside. Let me check. Yep. Thanks again, Gmail.

Before there was blogging there was just writing. Remember? Poems that no one ever read and funny little stories that lost steam before they came to any satisfying conclusion. Sometimes song lyrics and sometimes philosophical positions. Writing for no one, lost as soon as it hits the page. Just thinking and inking, kenning and penning, plotting and jotting, dreaming and streaming, knowing and flowing, noodling and doodling, crafting and drafting, and also not worrying about rhyming. Or timing. Or hosting or posting. No hits or twits or stats or chats. Remember? I remember.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Trolling Myself

Today my spirit is a tiny little troll with bare feet and big ears and unkept hair and slightly green skin. He's sitting in his dim, muddy little underground den because it's raining outside (metaphorically) and he's not at all happy about it. He doesn't like the accursed rain and he doesn't like this time of year and he doesn't like the mud between his toes. Today my spirit is a discontented and grouchy little troll and nothing you do will make him stop pouting. You might think that you can pick him up and tickle him on the stomach and say, "Cheer up little guy!" but it will not work. He will slap away your tickling hand or possibly, if you try again, bite you on the fingertip. He's not interested in cheering up and he's not interested in your desire for him to be a happy and cute little troll. Just leave him alone down here in the muddy mess where he belongs and go away.

But come back tomorrow.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Super Bowl Recap Extravaganza with Orthogonal Asides

I used to have this process where I would think of something to say and then I would say it. I called it my process. Lately it doesn't seem to be working for me. Lately I'm trying to get by with this alternate process where I don't think of anything to say and then I say it. Sometimes I do this thing where I think of something to say and then I fail to say it, saying something else entirely. I think I preferred my former process, but I cannot seem to get back into the groove. Take this post, for instance. This post is supposed to be a love poem.

Most of you have heard at this point that the Pittsville Stealers defeated the Arizona Bishops in the football match last evening. I watched the match and was completely riveted by the final period in which the Red Birds looked as though they might out-point the Stellars, but Pittston hurled a mighty score throw with mere seconds left in the competition and Arisita was unable to advance to the scoring region far across the grassy field before the final inning expired. Hail to the Steelites! They are the lords of their sport for now, having won the World Cup of American Football, the Super Cup!

Have you ever noticed how numbery football is? There are numbers everywhere. John Madden is probably a math prodigy, like Ben Affleck's former lover in that movie they wrote together where Jason Bourne hugs bearded Mork. "It's 3rd and 2 in the 4th and the ball is on the 24 with 11:17 left to play. It's an 8 point game so they'll have to go for 2. Warner is 65 of 80 this season, number 5 in the league. The Steelers have 4 out left, but the Cardinals are bringing 5." At the end of the game, if I figured everything correctly, the answer was 17. Is that what everyone else got? 17? I might have added wrong in the 3rd quarter. I don't know.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

The dregs. There's not much more where this came from.

It's the day before tomorrow. Only one more day and then tomorrow will be here. Are you ready for it? Does it make sense, I wonder, to spend today preparing for tomorrow? What will you do tomorrow, then? Prepare for the next day? Is that what life is about?

Today I will prepare for yesterday. By the time today is over I'll be ready for yesterday to start. I may not get everything right. I may make some mistakes, but there's always tomorrow to prepare for today. I'll never catch up, it's true, but I'll never get behind either, right? I don't know. I've confused myself.

The cutest this about kittens is the way they look and the way they move around. The cutest thing about plumbers is the child-like innocence in their eyes. The cutest thing about cadavers is the little tag hanging from their toes. It's adorable.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Madness. Time. Mad Science.

Life makes a lot more sense, I think, if you go crazy. Suddenly everything comes into focus. Everything falls into place. When you're crazy things get very simple. Reasons abound. Questions vanish. I thought about going crazy, about really losing my mind. Call me insane, but I'd prefer to be the way I am. I'm only interested in the real answers these days, in the truth. Can the truth be known? Can you ever know that you know the answers? Maybe not, but I don't want to pretend. I'll visit crazy from time to time, to see some old friends, but I'm not going to move in over there. It's a madhouse, really. People over there aren't right in the head.

A few minutes ago is my least favorite time of day. I also don't like a few minutes from now, in the future I mean. I prefer now. I prefer here. It's a place I can relate to, a place I've been before. Some people look forward to the future. (Well, everyone does, I guess.) Me? I'd rather make camp right here in the now and relax for a while, maybe get a few things done. You could join me, my love. You could study for your class. I could do a little writing, or maybe draw a picture. We could make love at least once, maybe twice. I could cook us a nice dinner or plant a garden. You could finish a project or two. Wouldn't it be nice, just to linger for a while in the now, appointments and obligations suspended in frozen future, not being neglected but not getting any closer. Sure, we'd eventually want to get back to the normal flow of time. In a few hours. Maybe a week or two. Twenty years tops.

Mad scientists are inventing the future of crazy as we speak. They're not angry, mind you. They're mad, insane, nuts. How they ever managed to complete the schooling required to be scientists is beyond me. Nevertheless, they are busy in their laboratories crafting the crazy of tomorrow. They're making breakthroughs, proving and disproving mad theories. I'm terrified of these men, of the things they might be inventing. I wish there were sane scientists to counteract all the mad ones, but I've never heard of one. This is why I avoid science, because of the ubiquitous madness. I stay away from millinery for the same reason.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Worst. Post. Ever. Don't. Read.

Sometimes you fail miserably to convey what was in your head. Some things are just bad ideas. That's how I feel this morning about my Barack Obama post from yesterday. In my head? Hilarious. In actuality? Strange and disappointing. Judging from the reactions I've gotten, both in comments and emails, it just seemed to annoy most people. I'm tempted to delete it, but I don't like to delete posts. It happened. Move on.

I was actually thinking of doing a whole series of Barack Obama posts, scattered around. Barack Obama teaches kids about the importance of oral hygiene. Barack Obama shows up to teach some campers how to start a fire with two sticks. I have a supernatural vision in which the floating heads of Jesus, Buddha and Barack Obama tell me how to work through a crisis. Barack Obama, the PSA of our times. I don't know. To me it seems funny, but that's just me.

Hey! Guess what? There's snow everywhere here in North Texas. I like it. It's quite a different look for the area. You know how kids love to run in the snow and have fun? Isn't it precious? It bugs the hell out of me, to be honest with you. I'm such an aesthete that I just wish they'd leave it alone so it would look pretty until it melts. I'm curmudgeonly, I guess.

Wow. I'm just going to stop. I hate this post so much. What the hell is wrong with me this morning?

Hello, friends. Sorry. I'll try to be better on Monday.

Love.