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

By

Clam room.

Clam. Fermented, dried, stale and shaled like shelled clams. All over the place, and still, there was never any shame. No regret, no hate. No disdain. No misfired seed, no negative looking for the positive to feed. Scared money does not win.

In the corner stood some of the shames. Forgotten, lame in the blame laid upon the stains and the names fallen after such games without frontiers; war without tears. It can be proven, from said surroundings, that light, or combinations of the lack thereof, with the right fungi and just about anything may seem logical.

Humans. Creatures of habit that fall to the side of the road like a rolling donut off the truck that carts the cooked carcasses of processed gluten towards the fields that the greenest of grass, the fastest of lines, seek. Hearing the stories of bullshit twenty dollar jobs, lines and credit that still shaded shame and hardship in the bedrooms of a nation that to this day still sanctions silence, sees abuse morph into the wails and sirens of the sorrow laced dreams parents shall carry, wary, well into the nights they only wish were not so lonely.

Once met a fucking sloth. Came from a village of stupidity, and then blamed the world.

Happy to see, listen, hear nothing from that rancid cunt of a fool – hate is little compared to the word I would carry forth to the genius publishers from Oxford. He wasted the time of a dying man, counted hours. Life blackened by the nape, the extortion of rings levitating over the padded landing areas that promised medals of bronze, silver and gold.

Vape.

He was a master gardener. Where the malts and the ales set sail, he came to claim the fever. It was gold, and these hills lay barren but for the ill, eh, lads…names, monikers from vigils that are tales that may be remembered between the swishing of the fluoride, a civil poison wrapped in a till foiled shat, smitten reminder of the crumpled cup that now served no purpose but another foul ball upon the yielded dreams.

I would imagine he smelled this. Late nights air, just a fishy shoreline and a desperate gasp at yesterday.

The crunch of the shitty shirt, crusted with 3 weeks of Bill Cosby approved ‘magic pudding juice God said we shall not spill on the ground’. Consent is only possible when two parties exist, could kiss to exist. A figment of a planted cookie, a stored backward arrow that can be seen as the token to the doorstep, hush…little baby? Don’t sigh, daddy is going to buy the memory that allows you to sing.

She was bloated. It was bloated. Of course if, she ate like that, consuming every living thing into her silver womb. It was another green chocolate feeding the ankles, dangling above the very demise of being reminded by the Grand Wizard of wasted life, to spay or neuter your pets. To those of you that still cry the word Plinko in your sleep, sure of where your pinky lays and the scent it conveys…

…buy more of the pipe dreams.

Consume more of the wax they spoke of as being pure and real. Made to help you deal with the madness, the sanctity of the sound oblivion parading towards the fast food chain straw dispenser. Perhaps this is the straw Bono spoke of in “Where the Straws Have No Name?”

Synthetic fibers were the best. They often allowed the fluids, the smelly liquids of sorts, aqueous stench vessels. One could argue that these all should have touched the floor. Torched the genetic fragrance such that it could not infest another embryotic companion with the wanton disregard for sanitation.

Then again, they were all too busy waiting for the 86 to come along.

*abide*

By

Umbrellahead.

The reason it is so big, is not just the contents. I think it has something to do with keeping the rain off the shoulders, I don’t like rain on the shoulders. Feels the coldest of all the places that rain settles, the wind just brushes it a certain way there. Makes it more bitter, harsh – but that did not matter.

I have an umbrella head, and I am not talking about a head like a big one, or a round one. I mean a head, that was actually stretched into looking like a hammerhead shark tried to come out the vajayjay and got caught on some sixties untrimmed bush, creating this bone like frame similar to that of the inside of an umbrella, and it was to that my skin and brain formed in the baby years.

My name is Umbrellahead.

Hard to grasp, but just imagine an umbrella that is over your head, but it is not over really, it starts right at the top crown of my abdullus camelgotta. The good news, it is not convex to the body, but concave. I came out head first, got that to be thankful for.

I won’t bore you with all of the details that became challenges in life. Early in it, pretty much called cute. It was a novelty, and it was amazing. I was special, and loved it. The kids always picked me first for soccer and baseball teams knowing I could keep them dry in the field if they ran under my head. Wind was not a problem in those days.

As other people waited for the rain to stop, I happily stood beside the BBQ, eating the hot dogs innocently with the chosen few to stand around under the “halo”. We would laugh, and laugh.

Of course, this began to change more as I got older. The cruel comments started in grade 6 to be exact. I commented on Becky’s Road Runner jeans, and she said the first mean thing to me that day. I never really understood it. I knew it made me feel bad, but why?

“If your second head looks anyone near as fuqtarded as that umbrella one you are never getting laid Umbrellahead.”

The words still ring in my head. Did she mean my umbrella head was my second head, and the first one made me ugly enough that no girl would ever let me touch, let alone get into those Road Runner jeans? Was there some kind of hidden meaning here? Was she talking about the head of the magic souvlaki that I was gifted with? No, that was shaped like the smile of an angel. Odd, very odd.

I am sure most of us know the coming of age for a young boy will start in and around grade 6. This is the time that he begins to discover the sexy raincoats in the JC Penny catalogue, or those patterned umbrellas from the L.L Bean booklet they always mail you for the shitter. Best place to bloke stroke as a young umbrella headed person, and it never dawned on me until that fateful day, that perhaps I was different.

That was all it took.

One hot, Road Runner jeans wearin’ buttertart.

My confidence was shaken and the world was about to come crashing down.

The next dozen plus years were like stubby bottles and bacon grease. Drink the bottle, fill it with the pork bellies drippings that no one wanted previously, but now were declared delicious by the machine – it had to drip somewhere, and the lowest common denominator may as well make something happen with it as the gruel of life was to be both tolerated and celebrated.

People would throw things at me, and stare. I would be ignored, or pushed out of line. I was told I had to move, or be thrown into the recycle bin cause no one loves a deformed umbrella.

Harsh.

It did not matter that I had a heart, or was a man that simply had an umbrella head but could lift eight times his body weight. Spoken word, math or agricultural discussions flowed like the Pacific shaking hands with the Atlantic – but it did not matter. Polite to a fault, wanting to make sure all could sit, or the door was open, or the line up was not an issue, please go ahead – but it did not matter. A great CSR, with a penchant for solving any problem, with no additional costs, manipulation, lies, malcontent, malodorous management mantras or the like – nope, not a fuckin’ matter.

He would still be mocked and taunted. Pushed and pulled to move away from someone quickly before they ‘called the police, or whatever we call to deal with your kind’ – life, it seemed had changed for me.

The only time, and I mean the only time people were nice to me was during rain storms or rainy days, the bad windy and snowy ones, or even on the odd scorching hot day when there was no shade to be found anywhere. Of course, it would be my pleasure to allow the top of my umbrella head to get sunburnt in order to make sure yours does not. I want to stay out here and do this, so you can take an iPhone pic of me on the corner of Queen/Yonge with 13 people huddled under me after you have left my comfort to find your home in the wet masses going home to loved ones. I want to get on that trolley, but by the holy laws of Zeus, no need to push these folks away.

I have no loved ones, and may as well feel good and get the smiles and best wishes now.

Assumption: this was going to be the way that my life was going to change from being a fun loving child, to a utilitarian tool that would be there to be used as required, and then tossed aside. Never cleaned, or cared for. Never held with a pride and an esteem that my great-great-uncle in London was. He had been born with a walking stick as an arm, it accompanied a wonderful gentleman around Essex County and the surrounding woods everywhere. Bringing adoration and prestige.

Not me.

I had to be born into this day and age. The one where Fonzi had ruined what was traditionally cool, and artists like Mickey Avalon spoke about “their dicks” like it was some kind of custom, orthotic rubber shoe cover.

My life as a man with an umbrella head had turned into a nightmare. I had no choice, and even went to the doctor so I could see what she could give me. She said son, son you have gone to far, been smoking and trippin’ – betchya there are fairies that you have seen also? Yes, I said, a fairy with boots dancing with a dwarf. She gave me some Celexa. I will never forget the day.

It was the Sabbath. It was black.

Everything changed after that. I just went into drone mode. I allowed people to snap pictures of them with me, laughing outside but crying inside. Sometimes I would make elephant man noises, and speak of not being an inanimate. No one heard over the clicking of the lens or the laughter. I got into the groove of feeling what my shoulders would be like at the end of the day, having to turn this way and that to go through doors or try to use the bathroom stall. Do you know how hard it is to have to hold yourself up with two arms on the stall walls and then Turkish hover shit into the bowl a few feet below? Sure precision on the bowl is important, but if those legs start to swing or the shoes get in the way, I got some cleaning up to do later.

*sidenote – bullshit more people don’t have handicap stalls, but the fucked up thing about those is the toilet is right beside a wall and I still have to contort to the left or the right, and sometimes the tip of the umbrella touches the floor and I have to go home and use the acid-infused shower to rinse the disgusting juices of bathroom floors off.

Life was miserable, but it was the only one I had. Sitcoms, social networks and soda. My health did not matter. Even with muscular arms, a gymnasts body and chiseled set of legs, I was still an outcast. I had tried running at several points in my life, but wind gusts prevented any effective training and in fact caused some serious neck injuries that one time along the Scarborough Bluffs when that wild brine tsunami came unannounced.

I lay in bed for weeks after that resting. I don’t call it sleep, because the position and the discomfort is as close to Hell as can be imagined.

I did not even think about the word love. It was just a fantasy concept. I liked a lot of things, found joy and relief in being able to hide in some of them, but I did not know of this place in my life. No family, no friends – this shadow of a person walking the streets the way to the specially adapted cubicle, with the specially adapted ear piece, taking calls, making sure customers were always treated with dignity.

No one could “see” Umbrellahead here. They could just feel his words. He never confused people, he was very clear. Easy to use, and functional – his intellectual fabric protecting the customer, even from some of the same internal assholes who resented his 106% Satisfaction Rating, which for the record is possible is you take the 6% of the calls he resolved for his “peers” and add them to his own 100% rating.

The day that I met her, it all changed. It was as if the thunderbolt had struck me, and I had never heard such a happy person in my life. She had called to make sure to thank us for providing an adaptive kit she had been looking for all of her life, it changed her life – and my gratitude in reply was kind and real.

I had helped improve that kit based on my umbrella condition, and I was so pleased that it allowed her to see life in a new light. She told me, and I will never forget those words, the man that understood the need for this in the world, was the man that would have her heart. I pursed my lips, and my pulse grew like the cocks of the stallion steeds returning from the battles of Alexander the Great to see the fields of mares with trays of cheeses, dolmades and ouzo. I could not tell her I was that man, that would not be right. My heart sang, for the first time since being an innocent child.

I spent the entire shift on the phone with her, Ms. B. U. Stand. She was fabulous and by the end of the call, I was just calling her Stand. It was an odd name, but she was endeared to it. Said many times, it was just fate that had things happen for certain reasons, and she was happy with hers. Although never married and alone, she was educated, had a wonderful farm estate she had adapted into a pleasant place to greet company and share baked goods with the bed & breakfast guests, she said she had “hopes to put in a small Canadian shield amphitheater so she could host special events for special people and their friends.”

She helped people who were special, or with challenges, find the beauty in who they were. She asked me at the end of the call if I would be interested in meeting for a tea, she had to come down the street from the office the next day, and I would be able to receive her drawings, related to possibly enhancing the quality of life of others who may need the device, and she felt it was her duty to do that as quickly as possible. Making the world a better place was important for her, would I be so kind?

If it had not been for the fact both of them felt something over the phone that day, combined with her incredible intelligence and foresight to be able to predict that he would never break a professional code to have a tea with a customer, let alone risk being seen and rebuked. The one time he had tried this, all the change she had been counting as she waited for his arrival was thrown right at his umbrella, one of the dimes had an evil ridge, it left a permanent scar. Still sees it to this day. He smiles today though.

If we can make one less person suffer, let’s do this.

Lunch the next day was a good time, and Umbrellahead would still have to eat, so he suggested 12:30 and he would treat with the tea. It was best it stayed in his hands and the tray, that shit is hot if thrown. Lessons learned. *sigh* She was going to be wearing orange, their favorite color.

Umbrellahead came from the back, it was the best way to approach for him, and in this case, it was fate. What he saw, expecting to see Stand in orange, was anything but a regular stand.

She was beautiful. Her shape was like no other one he had ever seen, and to some it may have been contrived as even over weight, gaudy. Un-natural even. Horrible, ignorant people would say this. Real men, true gentle, kind, loving, magical men would not care about such a dalliance of thought, they would be so struck by the unique and beautiful nature of who she was, and what she held in such high regard.

She had an umbrella stand on her back.
Back U. Stand.

My head was spinning.
It was making sense now, her name.
The u.

A large, ornate, flesh covered umbrella stand. In it were several orange umbrellas, each with a small orange heart shaped piece of paper that said “Be kind, share the orange.” They were beautiful, and somehow would be hidden from the front. Her hair, this beautiful Natalie Wood/Brigitte Bardot creation was flowing in the back and also worked well with her choice of outfit.

I was about to turn, and run – I had on some Dockers, and an orange plaid shirt. I thought it would be funny to wear orange socks and my flip-flops, cause dressing a little like a clown might disarm most, and one of the creamers fell off the tray. She turned gently, and our eyes met.

I never went back to work.

I moved out of my apartment 2 weeks later.

My umbrella head helped keep the sun and rain off the back for 2 summers.

Igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic all created one beautiful blend.

The people in our lives are beautiful people.
Unique, smart, funny, loving – people.

The happiest day in our lives, was when we found out we were pregnant. It took several months for the doctors to confirm, but I am happy to announce, we are expecting twins. Sometime in the fall, 2014. Two peas in her pod, but momma umbrella stand is doing well and we remain blessed for all the magic in our lives.

Umbrellahead, Back and our two peas.

Please say hello to us after the show, the matinee is the best one to bring the kids along for pictures and autographs, the evening shows can get a bit more cheeky when we include our special guests, Clothesline Arms and Jackhammer Dick.

Fuck, life is a trip eh.

*abide*

By

Abide is not passive.

a·bide [uh-bahyd], a·bode or a·bid·ed, a·bid·ing.

verb (used without object)
1. to remain; continue; stay: Abide with me.
2. to have one’s abode; dwell; reside: to abide in a small Scottish village.
3. to continue in a particular condition, attitude, relationship, etc.; last.

verb (used with object)
4. to put up with; tolerate; stand: I can’t abide dishonesty!
5. to endure, sustain, or withstand without yielding or submitting: to abide a vigorous onslaught.
6. to wait for; await: to abide the coming of the Lord.
7. to accept without opposition or question: to abide the verdict of the judges.
8. to pay the price or penalty of; suffer for.

Verb phrases
9. abide by,
     a. to act in accord with.
     b. to submit to; agree to: to abide by the court’s decision.
     c. to remain steadfast or faithful to; keep: If you make a promise, abide by it.

Origin:
before 1000; Middle English abiden, Old English ābīdan; cognate with Old High German irbītan await, Gothic usbeisns expectation, patience.

Related forms
a·bid·er, noun

Synonyms
1. tarry. 2. live. 3. persevere, endure. 4. bear, endure, brook; support.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

Citizenship in a Republic, Theodore Roosevelt

Think about it. Then don’t try.

When you do, I’ll be around.

Will you?

*abide*

By

To relatives.

The entire series, was almost a decade ago. You expect me to sit here, and be passive as my name and effort is slandered – I watch my own parade sunshine, your escapades are for others to deem interest worthy, or note scurvy. I stand by what I write, how I write, and for whom. Anyone, questions always welcome. You stare at the cover and wonder what the words mean, but I can’t hear what you’re saying. Then again, more than likely, I could give a fuq to hear it. *jar rattles*

Enthusiasm is relative. Not a relative. Make the mistake of thinking that you are married to some kind of blood kin, that is supposed to come rushing out of you like unbridled enthusiasm, and deep breath – and you are cooked.

Some like to take things to a point, and then are willing to walk away from them, even when there is residual value in them, they have become so exasperated by the struggle, but the effort, by the cause that may or may not have been treated with the fair and right regal attention it deserved, but then again, that is what has allowed us today to capitalize on the failures of the past.

The lessons they learned, from succeeding to move the bar, or the ones that were failures inspiring a new line of thinking, all the way to the one’s that have allowed us to see man truly flying on his own. In the air, on a prayer.

For the thrill, for the purpose.

To not be away from it. To peer at the thrill of it all, and know that life is worth living only when the seize of insomnia ask for no permission they know will never be granted.

Life is precious, in any regard.
Wake the fuck up and live it.
Today.
Now.

You are in a position that is “close to the edge”?

This is where success, separates from “them” who stand on the edge and don’t jump for the thrill.

Fucking pussies.
I was there.
Once.

Many times actually, but that is a collective once now.

The Man in the Arena, “if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

I will not stop daring.
I will not stop trying.
I will not allow someone to just smirk at the sand.
I will not abide.
I will not try.

(licks pin on brine grenade, filled with belief every morning upon awakening, I carry it on me at all times, and reloads are always near by)

Each particle, each fragment – united, it becomes a greater force. A clearer image, filled with the pixels of purpose and the thorns to be rested on the weary head that must shield their eyes, their orifices, their very souls from the cerebral tsunami before them.

That is ok sunshine, stay in the concrete tent.
That is where your God has asked to stay, serve the rebar.

If you mix your effort with cloak, it will go awry He said, and still you decided to press. Remove the caramel and sugar coated textile from the tin, and dance with the sure grin on the fluoride tainted taste provide by the Machine.

Follow at your own will, and under your prowess.

Blessings, once aboden, become surety.

Bounties on the soul, with actions and flaming fuqtardation to espouse matrimony with mental mavericks or midgets.

Listen, to the call of the loon.

Disturbance or peace, is a reflection which remains, and always shall be – relative.

To health, happiness and prosperity – the last of which, is fully defined by ourselves. The old chicken, has the juice.

What kind of side dish you want served with that corn bread, ma’am.

*abide*

By

This is how flying was invented.

Naked honesty.

When reflected upon and in a retroactive basis, is wild.

Beautiful and mesmerizing. Shanked by the sharpened edges of the social norm, restricted from being provided in the state of nature man was born into, for it would drag us back to the cave to be beaten.

Suffering fools, chained to the anomaly of convention sold as a bill of goods by the piper.

I wish that experience on so many, but alas – for a variety of reasons, and some within their control with others not so much so, they will never get to feel the rush of creating something so real and passionate that taking it down would be the sin, not posting it in the first place.

Sorry is the man that has never felt the rush of a solid sequence of syllables in a wave of emotion that brings him to tears, listening to the darkest of the memories tell him of the night hell broke loose and decided to bend your ear and hold your hand.

You held it back.
It was a wild night.
Do it again, I would.

Hollow is a life that is posted on a “timeline” and never reflected on again, wondering how the tree is worshipped and the memories that have made it so are forgotten to the fruits seen to be able to be harvested each year from a branch that would melt minds if it could reach into a garden of another kind.

But it can.
We can.
It does.

Gus does.

I am so unbelievably, fantastically, and cosmically stoked it is not even funny what a surreal trip this is. I am shaking with joy and emotion, at a level that is magical.

That is no lie.
That is alive.

That is fuck cancer, fuck cowards, wake up and live – alive.

No machine, no cubicle, no green grass only – orange grass.
Alive.

Where other’s see misery, and pain, and misfortune…I see opportunity.
To live, and be free from the thoughts and the illness, and ailments that want to consume me.

They shall not, but I offer them my soul and my life selflessly at the will of Abide.
If that is what it sees fit for me, then so be what I see fit for me.

To the ages of ages.

Reciprocity in piece, and being.

If you had made millions, and wanted to pursue a dream – would you?

Really?

Good, nice to meet you.

Me too.

*sip

Get ready, ’cause if you want the ticket I got one.

Enjoy the ride.

Υγεία, Φιλία kai θρησκεία
Egia, Filia kai Thriskia. 

“Health. Friendship. Faith.” is what many would get from a dictionary.

What I get out of that, well…it may not be as interesting as what Gus does.

The grass. It is orange.

*abide*

By

Albedo fingertips.

Albedo.

Reflection coefficient or, range?

Fingertips made of the same sensation.

Water.

Rushing, can’t stop.

It has been a trip – to get here.

To release the pounds.

Fucking.

Gus.

What a beautiful trip – the sheer, majesty of it.

Glorious really.

Breath taking.

A story based on fiction, that is fact? Factual account turned to reveal the reflections of a man in those moments the glorious waves just tumble and turn, providing us a moment to be thankful?

*sip

The journey was delicious, and it still is.

“There was never meant to be oil in the branch. It comes only from the olives offered at the table.” – Gus

*abide*

By

Doubt anyone else, but Feta.

Gus is raging.

The time is now.

The updates will be here, and the timing will be clear.

“The book” – is being published in the next 7-14 days. All ISBN information, and administrative functions have been cleared.

The “discussions” with other parties is no longer going to prevent me from completing my personal goal and intentions. Editors, publishers, agents…this is my arena, and I am tired of waiting to be told what and how to do it, sacrificed for the pittance of some time that needs to manifest itself on your calendar repeatedly to prove you have prestige in that position on the wheel.

You know where I am, the book will be out there.

Check, raise.

All in.

Fucking Gus. One “crazy” man who always believed the grass was orange, it was any colour he wanted it to be. He had a plan. It was all so simple, it seemed. Take the millions made, find new wealth and excess and create a magical marijuana operation. It was beyond criminal. It was life threatening, and life changing. The wild and drug fueled world of Gus and his associates, his family, his enemies – the life of a brother is lost, logical illusions crumble as paradox is crucified and marijuana is hung for treason while Gus reasons and has to fight to not only save his family, but in fact, himself and humanity.

This is no longer a testing pattern.

The grass is fucking orange.

Come play in it.

It won’t bite.

Promise.

*abide*

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*

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Fly when there is sun.

  • 100,003 @ 5:32 p.m *genuine humble bow is observed
  • 2oo posts
  • 12 pages, *some selections still private and exclusive*
  • 21 categories
  • 1,028 tags
  • 1000+ embedded links, laterals, tangents,”hints” and “blades of orange grass”
  • 2500+ hours of development and effort, media, iFeta, FetaChops and general brinesanity

Long hard road, with a hell of a lot of what some would refer to as old fashioned effort. The site over 14 months has managed to get to 100,000 impressions and hits.

No bullshit, despite the haters and the bots that look for scams and weak points.

It is all right here.

Regardless of my great boasts, and braggadocio* flare (*remember a small tribute once in a while to the cousins, the fellow Greeks that went west seeking pasta, and found wine to allow them to rest, learning some of the finer traits the modern Greek goes without such as more discretion, common math skills and a gentlemen’s agreement he will allow his wife to drink the same tease, but hers from a bag different than the one he ensures is diamond endowed, fluffed and proud) I am not perfect.

I have tried to interact, and keep the faith. Many folks are still around, and have become better friends, for lack of wanting to get into some kind of psychoanalytical state of discretion about the definition of the word, but please spare me the need for you to ask the teacher if he can tell you where to draw the imaginary line in your playground. If you choose to look at it that way, imagine a giant oil dipstick filled with black gel in an Oldsmobile Cut’ass that is pulled out and drawn across my imaginary sandbox as well. It is here, let’s just for the sake of argument call it Fetaman.com.

Any questions, any time sunshine.

I shake my head at pursuing the “dream” of writing, creating my own site has been a “trip” considering it was going to be meant as an outlet for some expression, and used to help provide a figurative backbone sliding to the works that are coming out in 2013. That should include two separate “books”, one fictional that will likely be a series of 3 smaller ones to cover three very distinct reasons and commentaries on “orange grass”, and another biographical/research driven. The beginning of another project has yet to be fully announced, and all of them remain incredible new places and things in my life for which I am most grateful.

Nobody would argue it could be perceived as very challenging, so I am sure you will accept my apologies for the delay in the launch, but if you are following the site, or have some idea, you know some of it has been “writer’s issues” and the rest, just the way if is. Sorry.

Hell? Sure, the writing for some, but for me that would be much too arrogant of a word for it.

Non sequitur it appears, my heaven and “hell” has been one of my own making, intentional or otherwise. Whatever it has been, is something that I have been responsible for, and I am not ever going to be playing a victim role. Stating fact, or fiction, is still a statement when they are kept in the context of their own minds, and remain relative to the participating parties in a capacity that is both physically safe and secure, of course mentally assuring oneself of the control you have over your own thoughts is key lime in the pie.

I would suggest, but fuck. You don’t even know me, why would you take my word for it? Some random on the internet, no pictures, no public person – man almost as good as the politics and the childish bullshit you can find on Twitter, or any other social network. The anarchists, or the sleuth – the “artists” of their own works, making sure to spend time in some kind of soap opera setting.

I am not a “kiss and dump” guy – if you are still on the mutual following, which is a term I find ignorant and truly not worthy of the interactions that can occur, there has been something that kept us here, but seriously – how the fuck do you even begin to try to manage all of that time and those experiences while looking forward? Can we provide some kind of response to every small mathematical clue that is given, and still have no idea what we are doing about some definitive answer?

Nothing easy comes for free, or without some kind of contribution of effort, commitment and extended over the longevity. A delta trapped in the mindset over a period it seems and quite frankly, a transition and an experience, every part of it as real as the growing of one. From allowing certain pivot points to reflect their own directions and then sailing on, to carrying on – in whatever capacity you want.

No one here at Fetaman.com is going to be judging you – wherever you came from, in whatever social network – you converge there for the ability to do what that physical place or that site facilitates, and you come here to speak and contribute about whatever you want. If you think you are being judged, it is by yourself alone as you interpret these words.

I am grateful to have been a catalyst, said not with an arrogance or a reward demanded for service of acclaimed reactants forming their natural evolution.

Recall, that cold winter night and the shallow naive – there is a difference in judging and understanding that, which is not mutually inclusive.

I want to be including more of you in the site, and can only do that when a hand is extended in good faith.

That simple.

With Twitter, I have tried to venture back into the world of greetings, and small blurbs of information. Hits, quick bong hits, shots, candy and sugar rushes, smiles, passing out taint grenades, shitting on all the crap you despise in society, screaming at the asshole that did something wrong…the sound will resonate somewhere…so I can dig that. You are here for another reason tho…me as well…some have been nudged, and from their own diligence, and from what I clearly deem the lack thereof, they have made decisions to not pursue more of an interaction.

A mutual musing, and for a muse, in whatever shape or form – a welcome respite from the blend and bland lacquer finish on the aluminum, powder coated food machine that will hula hoop your goop.

My need for expression is in my own waking dream, my own “invisible brown acid”, and I shall not ask for permission, nor beg for forgiveness in order to satisfy the wondering of the amused and the confused at the sum of shit that is going to happen because of the magic that comes from my declaration, and proof, that grass is orange.

Form a line by the reaction to the expressions. I know for a fact, the velvet ropes have arrived, and they will guide you with the comfort of the gull wing shoes and the dark tones. If you are in a challenging headspace because of health, happiness, love…money…whatever it is, it colours things a vivid orange, and makes it all seem much more real in truth, handled by capacities chiseled with resounding devotion.

Passion ne’er looks back but to smile, and if now those colours are the same ones, even now, they must appear different. You are no longer in that space, that place, that time – that moment. You are “further” away from it, and so see it in a different shade. A different variable colour.

I can dig it – there is no sun, without any darkness – there is no happy all the time, to lie to oneself about it, is one of the greatest bullshit cons this world has begun to truly deal with. Professing to know, and do not believe I do so, I state very clearly what I do know, and am beyond well aware of it’s relevance.

Travesties that mankind continues to perpetuate, inflate and saturate. then wonder why the invisible brown acid makes people hallucinate, or whether those “friends” you have close to you, are really being sincere and genuine. Considering what that is, has to be based on the information that you do know, or what has been shared with you.

Even the best friends that you have in your life, are not going to be able to even know a drop in the bucket of what the real happenings in life are. Lift that pitcher, make me laugh – be there doing something for me, and I will be more than considerate of the terms. Ask to be given support, and kinship – be seen as the wink link in the chain or the one that is not welcome to join the procession of the luxury car cavalcade. Who the fuck wants to be seen with a CCM 10-speed/buckshot handlebars upturned grooving the bottles down the street in an obscure and unseen way…

*context smirk*

Your hell, is going to be something that is much different than the starving children and people around the world who have nothing to eat, and are in a position to do nothing about it. Seriously nothing. I am older now, and find myself wanting to do more in this regard. Helping those, that are in their own living hell – and have no way out. Other than a small miracle, a genuine hand of fate bringing some stranger to this calling. A sacrifice, for those that have prayed for it, and know they are blessed. As I am, for no longer seeing what I have gone through as the hell it was, but the hell that was manifested.

Your hell, is not a kind one, or of another one can consider making unless you are a coward. Makings of your own creation, your hell will involve yourself and after time, getting a firm grip on where you want to be going, you begin to see the wonder and the beauty in the admission, an apology and some empathy which emphasizes respect moving forward. Saying sorry, from the heart, for real is not a hell, neither is hell itself something to be sorry for.

Is.

Stay real, please – vent when you need to, laugh when you don’t. sing when there is darkness, fly when there is sun.

*smile*

I am on the ground, and others in mid air.
Sending in the clowns.
Approved bliss, still or moving.
Sending is an acknowledgment, not an arrival.
It was always there, as sure as the lines.
Sand, time, air – cares.
Don’t you love a farce?
Whine, and an outfit made of cheese.

Don’t bother, we’re here.
Is it rich?

Oh, how timing is everything.

My bow, is of the most humble today more than any other.

Grateful to be alive, to be blessed, to have so many folks who have come by to say hello and share a smile, or a tale and have out days better because of it, somehow.

“The grass, it is orange man.” – Gus

100,000.

*abide*