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

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Happy Father’s Day Momma.

I was pretty much raised by my mother.

My dad was there for some of it, but he was an abusive alcoholic. “Known” bad-ass, and made sure everyone dug it. We never did as children, I mean the guns in the basement were normal right? Who needed to play just hockey down there – why not do it with a Luger as one post and sub-machine gun as the other? Fuck it, it was the 1970’s man. Never had a hand raised to use from him. Not me at least, and to the best of my knowledge and reflection the one that got thrown down the stairs, or beaten again and again – shamed – was the lady that gave me birth.

The mother, my mother.

A documented miracle.

I got a few of ’em.

*sip

A pioneer in the 1970’s. When a woman would never leave her husband without fear of serious issues in the public eye, in the private eye or through a black eye. It was the era when one more for the road meant a six-pack by the time Creedance guided the LTD down the black ribbon with innocent children in the back and an abused woman in the front now knowing what the closed doors might bring.

We left with holes in our shoes.

This is no lie, we hid.

The YWCA, for months. In a basement of cinder blocks and 68% complete board games. We made our own games up, we were children. We did not know what was really happening, but we knew it had to happen.

Home was not safe anymore.

When I hung up the phone that day, in downtown Oshawa it was I alone who had to tell my mother that he would not be told to do anything by anyone, and if he wanted to fucking drink, he would.

Fuck us all.

The real father was the one who did not get out of the car, on the off-ramp to take a piss cause he was so hammered. He figured his son was the assistant-captain of the hockey team, and since we were the third car, they would wait. They could see his rancid twin as it flashed in the beams of the cars floating by wondering if what they were seeing was real.

It was, the real father made sure he was never there again in that position. She made sure as the real father, that we would be protected, as protected as we could be. Fed, as well as we could be. As strong, and as smart as we could be.

We all could be anything we wanted, all we had to do was believe.

So I did.

We were so poor, I had to learn to change a toilet at the age of 14 cause there was no way food money was going to be used to pay someone to do what a real man could do.

My father, she worked harder than anyone I have ever seen to this day.

Perhaps that is where I learned that 18 hour days are for pussies. You will read about it, see the photo’s from around the world. The newspaper clippings, and the “international business entourage”.

You want to succeed, you find another 3 hours in you, at least.

You want to be the best?

Find seven more.

The stories are part of the inspiration to the “works” that are coming out.

Sure, they have taken some time – but they came off hot.

Too hot.

No person has the obligation to share all the details of their life for the sake of another’s entertainment. I would argue that obligation is to the self, if you have the ability to wade through a lifetime of memories and reflections separated by fact or fiction.

It is all fiction.

Life is a lie.

It has to be, there is not a single person in the world who can determine the entire mathematical proof of 20 million-billion firings PER SECOND.

I was sure of this until today, when it dawned on me.

I am 100% sure that I have a clear, and absolute awareness that my “father” – was a single mom, who left on a way to become one of the ladies that made the world what it is today.

You think I am kidding, then you best be moving on.

Shit is about to get more real than anything ever before, and I don’t give a fuck.

My hands are in the air, and I’m gonna wave ’em like I don’t care.

It’s Father’s Day tomorrow, and two of the finest gifts in the world are mine.

A biological asshole is “residing” in Hell, and I adore believing that.

More importantly, I get to spend Father’s Day with my mom.

The grass is orange.

It is any colour you want it to be.

Happy Father’s Day Momma.

I am proud to be who I am, where I am – and doing what I do to make sure the world knows.

You are the reason why I know real moms are made of magic.

Because you are.

I love you, forever.

*abide*

By

Happy Birthday to…

What an incredible odyssey.

It has been a year since the site officially became mine.

I had waited over 8 years to be able to get past all of this, and before that – you have no fucking clue.
None.

You think I am not aware of what is “out there” – and what the “lines look like”…really?

Do you think a plan, that has been made for decades, even a lifetime if one considers it, is really just something that simply happens?

You have the sleuth ability to start to get hooked, and like the heroine town you may exist in, or the hero mind you do, you are addicted to taking it to the next level.

To finding out more, to getting past the reality of Survivor, and the fake fucking bandana’s and the bullshit positioning from Day 1 – “I am just here to make some friends, I am so naïve, I am so strong, I am so fucking smart, I am so fucking stupid…oh look, a tortoise with a hare on his back…do they even have hair…”

I know who the fuck fetaman is.

Pretty fucking proud of it as well, because I know it all – except for you.
You are the know it all I want to meet.
So does Gus.

He is interested in beginning to introduce himself over the next few weeks.
His biography is coming out.

Pretty fucking impressive, and having had the chance to not only interview him, but also having been given the chance to verify accounts, eyewitnesses and documented proof.

One of the strangest, oddest, brightest, most eccentric, gifted, smart, angry, loving, caring, compassionate, valiant abiders I have ever known.
If not the single greatest…

Gus runs on his own time.
So do I.

It is a birthday celebration and it is combined with a publishing. What more could anyone ask? I mean, seriously – what a long strange trip, and where are we still? Yes, just seeing some of the invisible brown acid come to life. A special K of sorts.

The biography, the story, of Gus…

Don’t expect synchronicity.

This is a delicate operation, and if you want to be part of it.

Welcome to it – you can either RT this link, direct with the question included, or you can #orangegrass it up, either is a chance to ask Gus, and I can assure you, he will answer.

Celebrate or don’t.
Trust me, this has nothing to do with hunching over anything – not a typewriter, not a water tray, not some village code, not a table of weed, not a set of bullets, not a conspiracy of shades that are something new…

I know.
Hard to believe.

Trust me.
I fucking know.

It doesn’t matter though.
Cause the clock, the watches – the story of Gus.

It becomes clearer with each passing day, and in the coming 30 days, how many and when are just beside the Fuqu Pyramid, just take a coat hanger and levitate near it.

There is a whole year to explore behind this, and there is much more for myself.

Being an interviewer, is one interesting experience.

Care to play?

fetaman/ _

*truly a wonderful, gracious humble bow today – humility asks for, and asks no excuses, for it too…*abides*

****this is where I insert my own happy birthday to fetaman.com – for the real fetaman, from the real fetaman, with a background heralded by associates. Go ahead, link from the site – fill in the question, I promise. I am pretty sure Gus would answer most honourable, logical and discretion sensitive inquiries. To the point of the dedicated box that is running the code – the rest, my…look…a shiny set of keys. Oh wait, it may be a text…did that arrive? No, must be a lonely time, grab the flash light…only 45 metres across the way…no, the...the way…

*************Yes, this is 13 of them, is that “code” also.

*******Gus thinks so.

*iAbide*

By

Orange snail trail.

Ever danced on the edge, under the orange skies?

Freedom is a choice, not a mandate.

Getting sum, is just another equation.

*abide*

By

Something in the Water: Greeks Invented Abide

“Nuclear was cool man, and getting folks to saddle right up to the plant, was a way of having everyone actually witness all of the fish and wildlife change. Fascinating shit, Gus was well aware of nothing back then. He was just a kid.

Shit it was meant to be I figure.  What with the events, and the reactions as such – soliloquies are not often rhymed from reason, rather they are often hashed from spuds of truth planted long before you knew that you would reap what you sow.

A whole generation seen tripping, and wandering the shadows hoping for the next byte of information to make them a buck, made this way by the excesses of their very fathers and mothers.  Family had done this to them.  Collectively, they wore the same expressions to their cottages by the bay.  Real cheap cottages, guess what, right beside another lovely nuclear facility.

This Branch Plant and Surrounding Love Fields had been properly commissioned, and just cause the water is a little orange, there is no big deal. After all, the government paid for the new trees along Main Street last year with the profits from this plant, and the government was there to help any one that had wanted to come to the town to work, and make a more prosperous living.”

OGA, 02-16-2013

*abide*

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Choose your alter.

Fetaglobe – shake it from Fetaman Abides

“The world is filled with a lot of angry people hoping to displace their poor decisions on the shoulders of others, and I no longer stand on that side of the alter.” – Gus, OGA

It is Saturday afternoon, a flood of brinesanity abounds with thoughts of a celebration with friends, a small gathering in humility and jest, to think about the path that has been walked in the last 8 years, once considered fully, closer to fifteen than ten.

The riddles are not fascinations or gyrations of the mind, they are the semblance of a soul that has been feeling the cold of an ice that dawned on his short life for a period of time that could not be measured. Fish do not tell time, they have a hard enough time trying to just survive.

Kind of like a man made of feta.

Through all of it, in this murky brine.

There is a lot happening in the life, and there is a lot happening in yours. Spending all of it behind a screen to hide from the harsh cancer, and cancers in fact, that permeate the mind – no longer a tolerance for the side that has to follow any diction or reason according to the anonymous waves of fiction and fantasy that are abound.

The new currency is honest, and forthright integrity of acknowledgement of actions that may have been poor decisions, but we all make them, and I can stand by the ones I have made as lessons, and living.

To be alive, to know – one. Self.

A glorious thing.

Like a fish you think you understand because of a snippet of verbal diarrhea that was snapped up as fodder, and perhaps a glance into a water that holds tides and the essence of life for another?

Wonderful.

Truly wonderful, to be stalked.

To pray.

To swim in the orange grass man.

*abide*

02-16-2013

By

Remote.

Fetaman – Num Num – Its a Party Invite

Bring Your Own Remote.
VIP Guest list.

*abide*

02-16-2013

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One small step…?

It is a small step?

It was a small undertaking, unimportant.

iGus peers from the shadows of “fiction”.

I abide.

Oh, how the truth does set one free.

Cowards need not apply, liars lay in thine grass.

No issue, I own my miles, in my gulch.

The grass is orange.

Fuck you cancer, we win…again.

μάνα, για πάντα στην καρδιά μου.

*abide*

02-16-2013 

By

Smelling salt

How you can feel so bad, and somehow you need the smell of a cologne, you have not worn it or looked “good” in months, years – how can you feel good?

Is it the media that says this, or just natural human desire?

What is going to make you beautiful, despite the life that is lead to the reflections and the journey that you take, each day to define the life and wonder that comes with the hope and desire to do?

What we do, often is seen as a need to satisfy the other’s in a society that demands reflection is only the purpose in paying attention to the detail that you must notice in the other’s attired. Never weary to continue to reflect the living of the person that sits in front of you this moment, on the screen.

Is it a shadow that you see, and one that includes yourself – travelling the roads, or having been along a journey the sheds a tear, and you reach for the tissue. Emotions.

Controlling your actions.

Watching it all, to experience it. To tell yourself a story, and remind yourself of why, today is a beautiful day.

In all of my poverty, and in all of my stupidity, I find my self worth and vast riches, a blessing no one can value but myself.

To have been blessed, in these recent days with the challenges, and to have been able to walk those miles with my mother, to have seen my niece and nephews smiling and growing…

Wealth.

In my gulch, there is no money. The fool considers me a peer and a sibling, who ponders the monetary note as anything more than a means to an end.

The intent, and the glory of it all.

The struggle to find the peace, only then becomes such a thing of beauty you abide by nothing else.

*abide*

A Reflection from Variable on Vimeo.

By

Feeling good

Birds flying high you know how I feel
Sun in the sky you know how I feel
Breeze driftin’ on by you know how I feel

It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
It’s a new life
For me
And I’m feeling good

Fish in the sea you know how I feel
River running free you know how I feel
Blossom on the tree you know how I feel

Dragonfly out in the sun you know what I mean, don’t you know
Butterflies all havin’ fun you know what I mean
Sleep in peace when day is done
That’s what I mean

And this old world is a new world
And a bold world
For me

Stars when you shine you know how I feel
Scent of the pine you know how I feel
Oh freedom is mine
And I know how I feel

*Feeling Good, Nina Simone

 

Sitting around making sure, that the feeling of the good is all about what I am going to be getting out of the words that you may. Sitting here, feeling like all of those things, just opens up a dictionary of words and functions that will all blend into some kind of magical matrix that is to be instantly understood and read by all, like the light of day flashing on the pavement that is pounded on the way to the destination.

Whatever that may be for you.

For me, it involves having to get through another day of hardship, in my own way, no different than yours. Struggling to find the reasons why I need to stay on the right path, and do the right thing. Maintain the fluid flow of a bunch of lies that are painted to make other’s feel like I am well, so I do not have to startle them or make them feel any less at odds with the way I am feeling. I wonder, when I finally die, will there be a reflection on these words and some kind of somber sadness that comes with knowing those days could have been spent better, and not driving one away from the reflections, but embracing them with a smile like you would a lost brother.

Someone, that may have been the closest friend you ever had in the world, that really supported you through some of the worst times in the world, and now you stand with what you believe are but a handful.  A collection of three, or four that comes with the maternal love and friendship I can only hope you enjoyed as I did, despite the challenges that come with a mother that has her limitations. Like we all do. The limitations of how far you can take a friendship, or how many you can really hold.

How far, you will really hold on to the thoughts of yourself, before you allow another to force you into the conformity that will not allow you to really be? You do not want to spend your life alone, you must find someone, else you will be a failure. You will not have attracted a butterfly to carry your dust to another.

How far back, will you go into the family history, and question the madness of an alcoholic parent  hoping it is finally solved, will tomorrow be any different? Will I find love from his memory then, knowing it is finally exposed – or will the truth expose the lies and beget the questions of why another would still carry them forward in some kind of lies?

You choose, to occupy your mind with the many thoughts that  you do, that I do, that we do, for a reason. For the intention of coming to some kind of conclusion or decision, to make the day a better one. To flow with it, and keep it on the course of the pleasant and beautiful world. The surrounding of oneself with the glorious meadows and the fantastic streams, like the song. Above. In the link. Like the hundreds of links on the site, and in the writings, that I am sure many have not seen. Perhaps they can’t.

It is hard to see the forest from the trees.

Six degrees of separation on that one, and I can tell you I got at least a dozen of each that flashed through the mind prompting me to take another direction, and move to another stream of thought, of consciousness. Awareness. I really don’t know, I let the fingers type. Most of this, remains unfiltered. That is to say, it speaks of the questions and in the way I do. Not intended for the weak of spirit, because I am not weak of spirit. Not because it is meant as some kind of elitist thing that has me be better than anyone else.

I am not, I am convinced, I am an idiot.

This does not make me a fool, and neither does it facilitate me suffering them.

Unless I want to, like you do. Like you want to keep reading to find out that the rivers carry the shit and refuse of the mind as well. They are not all golden ponds. They are complete eco-systems of sorts, with a busy and passing glance seen to be so calm and tranquil, but in the deep recess, we are told in literature and alike, carved into the rocks the messages of the ages screams of the science behind it all, and still we see only the top of it.

We think the songs meaning have a different meaning than they may, when we really examine them.

Like asking, and expressing how I did earlier this week, to an “aunt”, a “thea” (thee-ah, Greek) that is a dear friend of my mom’s, in the Greeklish neighbourhood she lives in. I know, there is a lot of the Big Fat Greek Wedding imagery is going to be going through your mind. Rightfully so, there is a lot of it. I wish so often I had a perma-video camera going some of this stuff is just priceless so I write about it.

In our discussion, we spoke of a myriad of things, astrology, living with illness, the hardships of life, always such hard and life lesson discussions with the older Greek moms it seems, but there is great sunshine and love as well, not always somber in the depth, but can be, and we got into the discussion of how people will naturally choose to remember happier memories, and often, these will be associated with the happier people.

This does not mean we are not going to have bad memories, actually have some good parts within them, or contribute to the good in the learning of why bad must exist in an effort to not only magnify but more importantly allow people to realize. We will. But we will naturally gravitate away from reflecting on those as often as we may, when we think about the best friend, or the great girlfriend. Perhaps your spouse, or parent. A lost child.

If we have suffered a hardship in losing one of those types of relationships, at a time in our lives that is essentially the time to lose them, we will always remember those good times in the grief. It will be our selfish lust for the positive, and the emptiness that it occupies now alone, that causes us to feel the anguish.

My best friend, was tragically taken at a young age. In his late 20’s. A great man, a big part of my life and my learnings, and a frequent visitor to my biography at that time in my life, and even today. I miss the good laughs, and the genuine lust for life he had, and how he looked at it. Each day, a laugh, or a lesson is smirked at as I raise my fist to the sky, or smile and tell him to fuck off. More often than not, I look down and allude to him keeping the beer cold down there for us, and make sure mine is a redhead. He always knew I had the redheaded chick.

Every day.

My father, not the case. I tend to avoid thinking of him. When I do, it may be because of the reasons why I want to avoid going into the deep part of the river. It is cold, and shitty, and may have some predators that I am not aware of, or just do not want to deal with. Of course, there are times when you have to go.

Because you have to catch and kill that thing. It has been destroying the tranquility, it has caused the notes of the song to seem heavier, as opposed to a wonderful melody that may be the first dance. Just the two of you. You could only be on that beach, dancing with her, if you got to pass that part of the river. If you love her, you will pass it.

If you love your love yourself, your life, you will know that there is nothing you can do about that parts of the river. They are created by a greater being, or force, and you must accept that whatever that brings, you will adapt to it and follow the natural flow.

You will appreciate the lifecycle of the things we look at. We will buy a bag of unicorn shit to much on, hoping it will make life’s problems all seem solved and grand.

But we will not respect the statements of those that come to a wonderful place of comfort, and confidence in accepting the hardships.

Not as a welcome hardship, but as a reminder, a poke a prod to wake the fuck up and live. To realize that each day is a blessing, and that even if one chooses to spend those days writing, or discussing things that may seem so out of the ordinary for some, that it is still part of a larger system.

A larger whole, that in and of itself, creates their own holes.

Rabbit. Black. Fox. Ass.

Making of them, whatever you want.

Me?

Nope not miserable, not even going to try to pretend however, that I am filled with some kind of magical radiance either. It may be a good idea to try to project that, I hear it get’s some real “genuine” followers and friends on Twitter, or might get you a decent presentation at the peach festival in Phukit, Thailand.

Hey man, I am not judging.

Just commenting on another part of the system.

I refuse to pave my paradise with recycled dreams.

I will let it be.

 

*abide*

By

Diplo 0: Abides Rocky Range

The art of the writer has changed into a new form, and I believe, in that, lays great opportunity for wealth, and for prosperity – both in a financial sense of little consequence to some but most important for others, and a physical sense of the larger proportionate share of who we are.

The writer, that will be most relevant, I believe, is the one that can continue to separate a distinct connection with their peers, or readers, yes there can be a difference, and take some of that writing, some of that exchange of ideas, and create a new direction.

Each day, as these gulch monks walk with me, share a laugh, and a kinship – each day, some of the anonymous you will appear in posts, and they will smile knowing it came from some of the words we had shared. They will make them know, they matter. In whatever sense that may be, and that is a gift the whole world could do with, and making it a better place. Simply sharing with people that matter, and took the time, to make a small difference, and not just walk on by without sharing that smile, with the stranger, who was really kind enough to look you in the eye, and not question who or what you are, look like, or do – they knew, as a good human, and just one, they were true to the essence of abide.

This smile, in case it was not as clear a reference in Brine Tsunami as it could have been, is not some bullshit star. I am not looking for mere stars as the texture to my canvas.

So I will paint something else, and wait for other’s to join me, and share theirs. An artist, a writer, a craftsman, a farmer, a businessman, a god – they all do these things for one thing or another, and they all wish to see, and admire similar works.

How the fuck, can you claim to have a body of work as a photographer, and have no pictures?

How can you write, when you have to spell check the 6 vowels, sometimes 8?

How can you expect to get to appreciate, or interact with anyone, for whatever the purpose, without some kind of exchange at the announced consecutions?

I am not creating my gulch to purge myself of the guilt for all my shames or transgressions as a business sniper, or a man that crushed lives. The art of war is now a BOD mandate, and a clausal battalion, but they entered the arena to do battle, as did I, and those times I was bloodied and beaten, and just barely walking – I accepted, as should they. These battles have also revolved around the lies and the hate from family, a cancer of another kind that had grown and grown, until I had no choice.

To stay alive, as myself, I had to become who I was, and if that meant, no longer tolerating abusive, truly sociopathic circumstances or standing in the regard these people physically abused another, or themselves – then I was going to have to walk away.

It have my own counter-balance to the anger and the hurt that comes from fighting a cancer. It is not to prove myself the victor of killing the very thing that has given me this love and respect for life.

It is because, I am what I am.

A simple man, with a genuine desire to make a difference in the gulch, and it may sound like some kind of odd reflection, and I will admit, even a mere decade ago, I would have laughed at my claim to befriending people on the internet, not being able to see them live.

Having to trust they are, who they are.

Some will express it as a “Tom Sawyer” side, and the way they express it can indeed be grand, or a choice of very simple, and flowing words used – creating sound. Indeed, very sounds to drown out the tides of the daily seize. To create an “escape” of the world we choose to play in, and I know that many others will.

It can be strange how life can throw a curve ball at you.

As an example, there was a Tuesday that two different friends would meet. An interesting tale of the young man, a God fearing and genuine good person, who decided at almost the exact second that an older professional abider, who provided a 6 month “pro” membership was in order. He generously gifted a membership to the Fetaman, feeling a need to have me enjoy the process more, and as he said “just a gut feeling, you are going places.” If not for this event, I may not have been able to tolerate the “designed” way Twitter was meant to be experienced, and could have left.

I have not, his consultation, both as a young peer, and as a younger generational technical confidence man, has been quite a fascinating experience. I will be the first to admit, there are times, I consider some of his “lingo” perhaps what others consider of mine. I do the natural thing, and have to pass on trying to “tweet this for the sake of tweeting it”, it would not be right for me to just be pressing the buttons and not be able to say I appreciate the flow of the timeline/bit text on the pages.

If not for this young man’s insight on some things, and his ability to remind me of my life’s lessons and teachings to date. Do not be annoyed if someone does not get it, it does not mean they will not appreciate all the other stuff that they may, if they want.

It reminded me of my grandfather’s words I have alluded to in here.

You can never turn a donkey into a racehorse.

Embrace the assholes, the donkeys. It makes it more of an experience, and enhances it. If you can open up your eyes, and see what this place is supposed to be. It is whatever you want to make it.

Hollow stars, are just tissue paper trunks that decorate a stage before they are tossed aside.

That pageant has passed.

There is no escape for me.

I am more present in my life, than I have ever been. I do not welcome anything, other than what is of my own regard and making.

I will help, but I will not provide.
I will walk, but I shall not carry.
I will sing, but only to those who abide.
I will purpose, to not grow weary.
I will honor, a word’s intent.
I will map, a gulch to find.
I will, what is sent.
I feta, mind.

*abide*