Brinesanity – an abide jar, filled with all the fuqs given.


Sunny, orange days

It is killing me.


Watching his mother with such fond abandon, he saw her bright side. She sat in her seat watching the day, and she came out of her anguish, to light for her children. She did not want it all, she wanted it for them, her sons. An only daughter, cause it had been burned into him.

So listen, to the song. Maybe you have seen some of it, in other cases, you might get it, those that can, understand speaking of the joy, watching a mother and her children share those special moments, on the train, as the traffic of time crawls never sawing a destiny call.

Shame little is done to see, in actuality, not the lies.

How it was. Never possible, but do come back like you do.

Accept this is the way it is, and the only thing you can do, is move forward. Day by day, with the love, and help of those in your life, left. Those that may or may not be there tomorrow.

Survival is for the timid, victory is a choice.


Just hair, it causes migraines indicating some serious issues, seizures, and other of the "grooming" issues. Most solid abiders, will just go Feta Fu on Rizla Paper styles and smile right at people who stare. Right in the eyes. Never avoid the eyes.


Protected: Look out weekend

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So she sat there…

All she wanted was to be able to smile. To find someone out there that could see that smile, for what it was. A blessing to the gulch.

…and it was nice. She wore brown leggings, stockings of sorts, and carried a small bag, it was a conference bag, and really was not that palin, it was simple. She however carried a stillness with her, and her quiet confidence was like a relationship of myself. The basic life she lived, was her own and was beyond the ego, and when I smiled at her, she smiled back…truly something that was nice.

My intention was not to sleep with her, or have to impress. I wanted to maybe have her smile later, at another time, knowing she was pretty and real in how she carried herself. That when the days got tough, and you had finished putting in 18 hours, Vogue was another magazine to pass the time….look around at the great day she had lived, and I had too.

I was at the final stops…this was a moment I may have finished typing on my own, or it would be shared…it would be either way, as the happiness comes with the compliment. The gift of giving costs nothing, but a silent giving to make sure her day would be good tomorrow.

Not because I wanted to pay that forward, but so that I could give. Maybe a smile…



a try all

did it have to be a trial to love
would it come from a time, a place, or a thing
the object of desire, from a street with no name
it would come to be

become more than emotional adjudication
rather, or will a trial to become
looking at the tears as a crying sky smiles
and never to be alone, it is more than little love
soon a tempest appearing that you will know
stare down the hole and will the win

it will become a love the envy of the ages, bound by time
love for another try, all for another
never to be shaken, shackled or said
the forever and a day, are sublime

*photo from handwritten reflection, circa 2006 – abide


Naked Panorama.

“Squatting on old bones and excrement and rusty iron, in a white blaze of heat, a panorama of naked idiots stretches to the horizon. Complete silence – their speech centres are destroyed – except for the crackle of sparks and the popping of singed flesh as they apply electrodes up and down the spine. White smoke of burning flesh hangs in the motionless air. A group of children have tied an idiot to a post with barbed wire and built a fire between his legs and stand watching with bestial curiosity as the flames lick his thighs. His flesh jerks in the fire with insect agony.”

― William S. Burroughs, Naked Lunch


Be criticized, and judged by the society, that you are expected to adhere to the rule’s of. Bow to that which is the going to work, when your going to be done, are the gone things in frosted best interest, and with no harm, but for none other than defined love for, your society – a general.

The good that will come is the selfless good of making the best of a self, in the arena I choose, because that is where the men are separated from the animals, for fancy and feats of feasts and festering jests.

Intellect, freedom, choice, and the will to live in their own manner with one purpose – staying alive, and being real, at the will of the story.

Stored abandon, believing you are telling the truth, so you can actually be free, and be able to not be judged. But the truth is a liar in his honesty, and they are listening to the truth so that they can judge the fell tail and be able to rise about “that” – smirking, inside even addressing the question that the voice is asking them.

Do they actually feel an empathy for you, and relate to that understanding without casting the aspersion, or is it a masked form of sympathy only provided by one that is not in the situation, and even implied as heavily as an inference of misconduct?

We taste real understanding in the lasting severance from the meals, bodies close to severe breakdown, questioning of the very existence, an aged rationale chronograph sure questing for an axis of reason to it all, and the frustrations that come from some of the mistakes, challenges that were made along the way.

Time and will not to be wrong, the reflection of space and context relative to a rancid will, entitled to a question.

Are you going to eat that?



Salinger – Sickened by Human Behaviour

“Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.”

The Catcher in the Rye
J.D. Salinger


Going pro

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.

Hunter S. Thompson


Fuqranauts have scene space

Be selfish, fuck compassion.
Make it happen.
Ruthless is bad.
You can abide in the now by changing the celfish and the s.
Survivor is a non-event, and in fax you are living your life to survive.
You are a loser, you have lost before you have even begun.
Survivor is negative.
You are not surviving you are dying.
Surviving is a slow death.
Surviving is not an option.
Sompassion is like a pomegranate.
It can welcome, or stay in.
Don’t try.
There is no thing you can not do, with the truth.
It will set you free, but the shit moth must go to the flame.
Not welcome to breed.
Manifestations of change.

It’s time to rewind, and unwind.

8mm of the mind.
Fucking douchebags gonna douchebag no matter their age.

Sure he is feeding a maple root somewhere by now.



A murmur to an angel.

Cursed to have met an angel, she showed me a way.

I took the one that has made all the difference.


“Anaïs, I don’t know how to tell you what I feel. I live in perpetual expectancy. You come and the time slips away in a dream. It is only when you go that I realize completely your presence. And then it is too late. You numb me. […] This is a little drunken, Anaïs. I am saying to myself “here is the first woman with whom I can be absolutely sincere.” I remember your saying – “you could fool me, I wouldn’t know it.” When I walk along the boulevards and think of that. I can’t fool you – and yet I would like to. I mean that I can never be absolutely loyal – it’s not in me. I love women, or life, too much – which it is, I don’t know. But laugh, Anaïs, I love to hear you laugh. You are the only woman who has a sense of gaiety, a wise tolerance – no more, you seem to urge me to betray you. I love you for that. […]
I don’t know what to expect of you, but it is something in the way of a miracle. I am going to demand everything of you – even the impossible, because you encourage it. You are really strong. I even like your deceit, your treachery. It seems aristocratic to me.”

― Henry Miller, A Literate Passion: Letters of Anais Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953



…does not mean dirty, or stupid or mean.

Poverty, and dignity – how does this collide, for those that want to embrace it?

Look at the colour of the sky, around you.
Change what you see, that you no longer wish to see.

Be, who you want to be, because there is nothing else.

Embrace it.