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

By

Accordion Alleys.

There is no way anyone is going to be able to understand this without some context, so please allow me to take you on a bit of journey as to how, an incredible accordion had me dancing on a Friday, directly as a result of a path that had not been pre-determined whatsoever, but one that had been effectively caused to spin in an orbit that only folks that have been online can experience. Speaking about it, as the trip that it is – another thing entirely.

It really is an odd track, and perhaps some may want to adjust the RPM’s – no regard to the telling, I will merely wander through some reflections and come to a place that has me sitting in front of a regular website that I frequent, salient news information in a way that is digestible and well sourced. There are too many to list and of course failure to miss even one would cause some grief somewhere, so assume it was one that you had on the frequent flyer program, and this little Leer was about to cause some changes to the flight pattern.

A provocative title that mentioned philanthropy and porn had grabbed my attention.

Fuck off, it was amongst all of the regular “business” articles, and it struck me as odd that it had been placed there. It also had a set of the icons illustrating “fire” or how many social network feeds it had been connected to, and despite many of these being forged or not even acted upon (*which, for the record – fuck, the traffic is sick, and what – no one wants to be associated with linking to the site? I must admit, this is rather frustrating, but it will not stop me from doing what I have to do, and how I am going to do that is about what I do, not to whom and for what it is done.) I take them for some kind of measuring stick, not sure why, again, like asking a bunch of dung magicians to discuss quantum physics.

I guess there could be some kind of magical rocket scientist in that group, but I remain skeptical, having seen most of that kind able to pull shit out of a hat, but no rabbit.

It had a feed about porn being ethical, and all people being able to enjoy it or try it out in their own space, and it was a freedom of choice thing. I don’t want to detail it much more than that, as I truly hope you will look at the article as referenced in the original post here.

I was inspired.

Seldom one often to be drawn into the porn discussion realm, but having an interesting range of experiences with it online as of late has caused some dissections. Not of the kind you would normally fancy I am sure, but of the paranormal kind that only an honest and objective look at facts may qualify. I am a purest in that regard, finding that as facts shift or sway in the natural progression that one might argue all humans demand of their formed opinions, so to does my admiration of disdain for the twine qualified roast that is about to be consumed with some gravy and chitlins.

The narration was obscure, and real. Spoken from the man himself, a dedicated champion of a cause that can seem so disjointed in the simple terms of what it boils down to, and the champions of censorship and disgust may scream at the top of their lungs when they look at, but at least they will take action.

Many of you will simply look away.

Doing nothing.

Thinking that no action absolves you from tainted decisions that one side or the other is going to hurl at you, and that is frankly distasteful. You find the thought horrible, and it is compounded by the horrible thought you feel if you begin to associate with “them” or “that” crowd. Such animals, such creatures you think as the Kleenex brand tissue wipes the foul chic of a walking asshole.

Your lack of action is the action, it a voice that clearly states in its absence.

It does not agree.

I am sorry if that cuts to the chase, but it is true.

This is a fact of life, move on.

So fucking what.

You think I wondered if posting would be seen to be an endorsement, or if I would be viewed as some kind of “pervert” who wanted to look at this only to find a glimpse of an ass veiled by some smoke and the imagination? The locations familiar to the mind; one should not admit that for fear of being recognized as a swine, or a filth pig capable of rolling around in that mud.

We all track mud.
It is the combination of water and dirt.
We all walk the miles on this earth.
We all will have mud.
I don’t care what else you want to call it.
It is mud.
Oink, fuck.

It did not take long for the action.

It was swift.
I wrote, it came.
I moved on.

Stated as a guttural fact, respect is a harsh mistress.

I had an exchange that came from another artist, and I try to use this word with the respect from which I in the past had distinct regard for, this is truth. I defined an artist differently, guess I had to as all definitions will change in time and never remain truly static, do they? I had found artistry in a more commercial form, like an archer’s bow and some caviar at a museum or gala. I had appreciated it, as beauty. Today the regard for it as a word is seldom tossed around by me. I have to be discrete, it is a choice sanctioned by my self.

As such, only she will know who she is here.

*smirk*

I was thrilled to see some diversions.

These are the reasons I am here.

These are the reasons that allow me to wander into the stars.

Different stars.

Stars like you.

Shining brightly, hoping to be the focus of a remaining eye at the end of the trail. Along this edge though, not only the snail. The shadow of the fractal mind, looking for some kind of infinite simplicity where the colors and the shouts all melt into a simple cotton garment in the summer sun.

There, in the grass. Fascinating, and pure.

Truthful in the need to simply express, even the most obscure note.

The progression had nothing to do with anything more than a primal need to accomplish the removal of the act. Seemingly blissful and expansive, there had to be more.

Is this not what we ask, when we put it out there – when we find that chance encounter and reach out, at times to have the hand slapped back for fear of finding something to hold on to?

It did not want to be held, it simply wanted to be acknowledged.

The message that came back from the darkness may have been to some shallow and grave, to one who is aware of the cosmos and the beauty of the mysterious;

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom the emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand wrapped in awe, is as good as dead —his eyes are closed. The insight into the mystery of life, coupled though it be with fear, has also given rise to religion. To know what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty, which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their most primitive forms—this knowledge, this feeling is at the centre of true religiousness.” – Einstein

Freedom is such a magical thing.

Is this what you really think?

So many different things can go through the mind of one, especially walking down the street. We have become enamel on the lens and dry in the sun. Curation for a nation has a new realm, and it is called dignity. What the nit is really digging for, I am not sure, nor do I care. I am asked to forgive him for his transgressions, as I ask to have my transgressions forgiven by others, so as this day, my daily bread can go to a hand that seeks a way up, with dignity. Do you have it? Then spare the dime, or some time. Life is the accordion, and some have a passion for it. Click the picture, open your mind. Feel life as the stave. They play as a force, these accordions. The wind is channeled through a mind. Yours. Dance, dance for Argentina – but do not cry. It is not foul, is merely the celebration of the decomposition, the structural, fractal analysis of the simple infinity that is composed anarchy. Touch the keys. Enjoy the moment, it may pass, but I remain thankful for it. I shall store it as such, thankful.

Wish it upon all, but know it is not anything you can have anything to do with.

Much like the tact you left at the doormat near the door that asked you to sign in. You had to be identified by the number, or the badge.

There had to be a brand behind that smile, and it had to be whole and clean before you got down and did the hand jive on that polish sir, yes sir.

Which.

Sounds so cunning and arrogant, like a question meant to be replied with the same demand it was brought forth with.

The black cape and the hat, have nothing to do with it.

The volley into a flame for the sake of performance, but to whom – the question of the sensor ship and the sensory evaluation, a form to be filled in and wrapped into a cannoli waiting for the ward to bring judgment on your worth to the machine.

No, it had nothing to do with that, and all to do with the choice.

See, it does make all the difference.

Which, is up to you.

Of course, and the I.

*abide*

By

Take my hand.

 photo samwhich.jpg

Invisible can be right out in the open. Like a stripper, dancing on a pole – firmly planted into the hot beef gyro. Subtle, yes – but in case some were wondering why this photo is here, and how come there is an audio link on the first Gus quote? Not sure, this was an older draft of something…

“I don’t want to skewer you with words alone, I long for the invitation to your cowardice in an arena of action and context.”

Gus smirked.

It had been some time planning this little event. Not so much a plan in fact, as it was a hope that a hand would be given and extended to meet. It had weathered it’s festering well.

The solid ball of rubber had been used to stop the sink from flowing water when the hard metal pressed against it. Shallow the nudge, but quick the cut of the flow. The nearest it would come to metal again would be the chain that held it. Want for nothing but the swing that would see it come crushing down on the skull. Bone replacing metal in a cold embrace opening the tap on a new kind of dark hell, but a knock before true entry.

“I never meant it to be about you.”

“Fuck you.”

Understanding physics is not required to feel the blunt force thrust, thunk only in a camera’s eye to ensure you can hold the baton around that corner, when you hear that train coming. Conducting steam from the forged heat that lashed out streams of hot blood, Gus swung with the fury of the anger.

Vengeance that was fed by the poison and the attempted destruction of calcified hate.

“Mary, and Stavros – feel.”

Time in these seconds held to the dynamic of high speeding footage would do little justice to the sounds of what lay in these walls. White had been so Clockwork Orange.

The new Glockwork Orange was much more suited to the feel of what was here, but Gus and the boys knew he had a special place for the color. It held the notes and the staffs, as spilled disgust sped towards it like some comet drawn to one last burst of hope before it’s red blended into the citrus like pigment. All the world is a stave motherfucker, sing the song you played that night.

In the HD footage hum, pock marks on his face were small semblances of the moon landing set in ’69. A nation now horrified by the ideal of walking in a man’s mind, tasting the steps that each swing took.

The ball was just under a kilogram. 2.20462 pounds.

The oblique line.

Parted.

Forced.

The masseter had no chance, it was held in place.

For now.

“Do you know that some kindness is paid in ways only understood by currencies not intended to exchange hands many times?”

The fucking eye’s had little prospect to but cause a flicker of the pins, each thrust only dug them in deeper. They had been specially made when he had learned his skills at flies. Magnified under a lens. 36 hours from forge to blessing.

He had blessed them. In prayer and in faith, in the name of the moments past.

Vitruvian angles splayed the protractor extracting a self-indulgent commerce. Justified deposits.

Slips in the game of sobriety that were to extract an interest rate never seen in the clauses projected on the parchment posts.

Offered crucifix, an overlaid rollerball on platinum shining in the sun reflected from man made surfaces countering the blinding light of the way.

Water just flowed.

It danced off her face when she was happy, and it was all he longed for in each of his days. How he missed her.

One of the men knelt down to pick up the hand.

In his reflections, a million thoughts poured from his mind. Not one satisfied by the look of a man, once again wondering between the state of death, misery and hallucination.

“No.”

He had studied all of these years, he had no idea any of the things that were mechanical magic and patience would exact such a toll on the mind. Forever more he would remember not only what he had seen, but also what was about to play out in front of him.

The orange ball too, was made for this occasion, planned for at this stage. After the first beating to unconsciousness, its intention would be made clear, thrust past the horizontal lines blessing the tube for a solitary measurement before disposal. Purpose serving.

Two consonants of the elixir saw the eyes stop bouncing off the flesh curtains that would never close again to bring rest to a hell they would be made to pay.

“Nice to see you back with me.” Gus said. “Fucking stinky little bastard eh?”

The smell of last night’s corporate waste had come to haunt the proceedings. Redolent, in re-doing what was lent indeed. Rancid reminder of the foul nature that stood in front of him.

“This; is another special gift. Not only made, but wrapped for you. I wanted to spare no expense, so had gone to find a couple of things.”

The “glass” was nothing short of precious gemstones, orange emeralds from the Medellin region, outside of Cartegena. It was not a trip for pleasure, there was none. It was a tale he would tell once more in his life, and that was told. Had you heard it, you know the trip had been an investment in the pleasure that would come now. It had been re-invested, a retained earnings for his hardship and suffering. It mattered not what anyone would have thought, if they found out about it.

They never would.

Ilk the like of those stranded payments, left in the capital cost allocation. The payments were not even discovered, seen, understood. They were always clean, they had come from the “government” body that had sanctioned it. It was nothing short of a corrupt and lucid brothel of pulp fiction it was, and so there is little in the way of anyone asking how the money was being allocated. That was the nature of those that were part of the hiatus from the social convention. The chasm that had to be paid for entry, was not one many would cross, let alone accomplish.

Trust, in the way, was very clear. It had nothing to do with the grass being any colour than that which it was.

Orange.
Fuck.

“The orange emerald’s are rare, in any size. Fragments of them are said to be able to carry the wishes of the dead, and so they were left to listen for all these years. Noting with each passing second the ones that had passed, multiplying them like some kind of Sun Tzu parable repeated over and over as one performs. Like knuckle balls. Every play Nerf baseball in the house?”

The muffled replies were hulking hopes of sound, but swallowed to the depths of Titanic forks and whimsical stair knobs covered in coral and cold. The pins comforted by the small drops that now had been swung into place by another man, not dressed the same. He wore the same clothing Ghetz had.

Another one of the men in the white coats approached as if on call for the queue that was unspoken, rehearsed in the depth of the mind. The mechanical hum provided a startled look, as close to one as could come from a dying man now aware his ankles had been clamped and now were snapped into position.

“Little off for me, but that is ok. It is self adjusting.” Gus tapped the first button.

Pistons gulped air, and the air gulped the cracks. Bone at that pressure sounds like ice dancing on a lake’s shore in the winter months. Magnified, an awl of sound.

The ankles dangled, but the skin was in tact. The machine had been calibrated to understand the right resistance. He called the equation, Blue Suede Schole’s.

“Prefer these ones to concrete every day of the week since. Elvis would be so proud. Mind if I do a J? I want to watch you aware of everything. Each of these chemicals and parts has been specially designed for you. I had a team of ‘them’ provide me with the components. You would not even be considered to know the name of the institution they came from, or the gulch they live in. Nor should your kind, ever.”

Gus cupped the perfectly rolled joint in front of his face as he lit it. The Zippo never failed.

Ever.

It was instinct.

Of the kind that extended his hand in one motion, placing it with a tic behind the button apparatus dangling from the pocket on his chest. A gruesome Cirque flourish, provided it to his left never losing grasp of the eye’s that studied everything, for any kind of hope.

There was none.

“You are not going to be able to say anything to save you any type of agony. There is nothing left to say, it is all about doing, and what I am going to do is ensure I get at that…in the most enjoyable manner I can. That is why…I chose to find another kind of magic… lose…Cartagena…do you roll those gena’s…gggggeeeehhhhnnnnasss…you know where that is?” asking with a marked metronome, he needed to make this last.

Gus’s face instantly changing, “Listen here man. I had considered the barbed wire around a broomstick option, but it was just too clean. To ‘standard’ for this whole affair.” and his arms danced again, “You are just blessed to know I had spent so much time as a pot pacifist to be able to come up with such love for you, cheeky monkey.”

Every piece of the ball that was now in his hands glistened, and it was alive.

Pleasure was not of the same scope as the orange grass.

Here, it was defined because there was no trying.

The was, is a beautiful place to graze, as the wave of calm reflected nowhere in his gaze but inside.

To a state of…

*abide*