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

By

Stoned. Immaculate.

Soul rebel, standing for souls that never shall be forgotten.

“Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.” Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

A ¼” if you prefer a little too meticulous.

It pays off in the long run, if you have the patience.

Gus had made a small wooden sieve out of some spare wood. Even that would be burned, so nails were used instead of screws. It only had a small function, figuratively speaking of course. It was to sift through some of the anonymous rocks that had been found on the shore of the lake during the coldest winter months. The extreme cold of a Canadian winter ensured all bacteria and traced biological elements could not be tracked back in case the bag broke. This batch had been taken on February 14th, part of his annual walk to reflect on what love really meant.

He shifted the weight and the pebbles fell through the holes. Typical, porous, sedimentary – small basins that could weigh up to a gram each, but Gus had figured on using 0.65 grams as the normalized average weight, and he was looking for 2.2 kilograms here. The number was not random. It would require about 3, 385 of them.

The go to drink had always been Crown. It created the necessary rage to entice the act to fruition. In solitary, by choice confined, either in the maze of his mind seeking more information and knowledge about the life that he had led and chooses to live, or in the physical world, seeking some kind of personal solstice in each of the solitary revolutions of the cosmic fantasy dipped in his world beneath the brine.

He was drinking Patron.

It was not by chance.
It was by design.

A change of state, from one plane of abide to another not often seen in the planes of conformity, and done so only in splinters and fragments, most of which would be reluctant to admit at inception that they would never speak, sense or smell the world around them other than the fleeting seconds of dalliance embraced in an ethereal world.

On the table before him lay two of the most common elements in society and a small plastic bowl. Bags, and duct tape. The thirteen plastic bags were inside of a BC Liquor Stores bag. It was green, and it had the “Celebrate Life…Enjoy Responsibly” branding blazed across the Made In China fabric to make sure they complied with whatever syntax the machine needed to confirm they had met the test for safely providing lethal bullets in the right amounts.

It too was not a bag that was random. Gus had tested many bags, over many years, for many reasons. Some of them to transport things, the details of the contents not relevant now, but are in the right context. Some of the bags were used to ensure the orange grass never became an issue. A critical component.

This bag had beaten out every other one he had tried. Across all the provinces, even bringing back samples from the Nevada area, and California. Nothing compared to it. Amazingly, some of the shittiest bags came from New York, likely a function of some kind of mob controlled, recycling/bag program pennies on the dollar swaption, but this bag was awesome, all alone.

Of course, it would not be alone. There would be other accomplices, but none would be able to speak, before or after disposal.

Testing involved seeing how long it took for the bag to break, with random stones in it. At certain sizes, and with certain textures each of the bags would react differently. Some of the hemp fiber bags were the best, but they had little sticking strength and bonding abilities like the plastic, and they could be identified. The plastic could also, toxic analysis of ashes and ambers if found would be able to delineate the difference in materials used for the plastic, markers if you will. The hemp bag had natural DNA in it, and Gus always like to restrict any type of DNA information being passed on.

Sure, more visible paranoia.

The testing involved a side of beef. Gus considered it therapy in so many ways. It was the kind of the thing that allowed him to wander through some of the darker side of the days, and sense each of his senses. It was important to him, the whole sensual thing, especially the common kind.

Using his hands, he was able to design a small fulcrum based catapult that had a swing arm exactly the length of his arm. The fixed based allowed surgical grade rubber to be stretched tightly, providing some force on a repetitive basis. Each alignment of the band snap, combined with the simple gear mechanism he designed from some old library research, allowed exactly 80 impacts.

40 days, and 40 nights worth always made him grin.

The beef would be pounded, tenderized and softened, but most importantly, measured. Small sensors on the meat would transmit data back to the laptop, about the blunt force trauma. He had seen some of this in a documentary he stayed and watched one day while on the road, cleaning some of the 20 tick-Benjamin’s he scored off Shift at that anonymous Laundromat place in Winnipeg by the Forks. He missed the rinse cycle and had to go through another load to add the small cup of bleach and vinegar during the spin cycle, but it was worth the wait. It helped hatch this.

He could smell the air around him, and it was the sweet smell of the traditional marijuana that most would find lingering, but the blunt air surrounding him was clear about intention. These were different experiences, and he had to lick and feel every second, not knowing just how many of them are in one’s life really should mandate this is done more often, but social convention frowns on certain behavior.

So the fetish is hidden in the realm of the cage, chased in the rage of a type, a writer’s trail. Razor and edge, slime from a snail.

Counting the rocks out took little time. In each of the primary bags, three of them, there would be the mille counts. The secondary bags would hold one hundred and eleven stones in each ascending layer, and a fifty spot would be the nucleus.

The two remaining stones were to be wet drilled in the center, dipped and baked in his traditional manner.

The Abide Beads would find two more rosary companions shortly.

Placing the first 50 stones in the first plastic bag was to be a quick task, but between having to violently masturbate and taking a shit, it took about 20 minutes. As the Patron coursed the known franchises of his lucid infrastructure, Gus took to wrapping the bag after three inverted flips and two knots. It was roughly the size of a racquetball now.

This was the most important seam, and the only part of the whole kit that could have provided any clue, and it was at the heart of it all.

In his own writing, by his own hand, of his own free will, and knowing full well the consequences could very well outweigh any iterations of the right he was to seek, he wrote using Midnight Black, using his cherished Meisterstück;

τηρούν, δεν είναι μια παθητική πράξη.

The push, pull and wrap motion strained his forearms. With each revolution completed, he shifted the tape in the radius and beat a rubber mallet over the surface to ensure adhesion and sound restitutions, intuitions murmuring amongst the rock of a once in life time chance to break the monotony and boredom of waiting to erode into some kind of nothing abyss.

Having completed the ball, and a full roll of tape later, it looked like a hard packed baseball. It was grey, not like the white one she had from their first suitcase date, a little league baseball game in Cuba, via San Francisco and San Jose de Cabo.

He kissed it, and placed it into the next bag, half filled with the mille count, in the bottom of the rounded bowl. By forcing the nucleus into the collection of stones, he created a semi-circular ball. It was not perfect. He did not want it to be. Nothing in life is, and this was to be what would bring one thing to life and take it from what should never have existed in the first place.

The layers would lock naturally, creating a new CSI stream of petrology, but never to be found by another. Kind of like hiding new species, not exposing them – the dawning of the Age of Nefarious.

The top was loosely taped into the top of the oval, and then flipped over to create the first core. Forearms, mallet, pull – forearms, mallet, pull – forearms, mallet, pull. It became a symphony of tears, laughter. He was out in the middle of nowhere, and there was not a single sound that could be heard by anyone. The music, the gunshots, the screams – all for his own pageantry, for his own ritual…just, to clarify.

When the ball was completed, it was roughly the size of a large shot put ball. A small honeydew, but about that size, and in total he had used nineteen rolls of tape, up to this point. He had done. It was not about trying or questioning. It was not about looking for approval, or seeking some clarity from another.

The bag now became the centerpiece and he started with the straps. It was key that they had internal tendons to keep the core from coming out of place in the throws of passion. The fantastic magic material from China grabbed the glue from the duct tape like a tension wire in a Shanghai skyscraper. It had to, that is what helped build it. Carbon fiber crosses and patterns were used, gleaned from meticulous research about strength and tensioning papers published from the likes of MIT, NC State and the public NSA materials.

It was now time for the Crown. Patron had fuelled the fire. The ashtray was indicted as holding enough marijuana to jail someone for 20 years if it were 1957, and still the Tupperware container held at least another 200 if they were called for.

Gus placed the ball into the bag, ebullient.

By the time the bag had been wrapped and properly molded all of the 40 rolls of tape were used. All of them allowing him to wield this random weapon with such force, the first blow would kill, if it were not accurate to merely facilitate the right impact for further viewing pleasure.

It now held a small noose like hole that could be twisted around the wrist with comfort before being flicked over three times to create a human numb-fuck. Traditional Chinese martial art tools be damned, their chain can be broken, a numb-fuck cannot. The bland wood claims such prestige, but is brokered as a concubine is for her ancient wares. Brokering with a numb-fuck is an entirely different enterprise.

The temperature was -40 °C, it was not ideal. There was still time, but he had to test it out in a real setting, at this extreme he would only have about a minute, fully naked to run outside, swing with fierce justice, and get back to the warmth. Return happier, better, never filled but with some empty removed.

Chugging back the Crown, he peeled off the last of the clothing and took his last haul.

The music had reached a delicious pitch, not important what kind.

Merely that is was empowering, not passive.

It demanded action, and logical illusions prevail it seems, so stop trying to fight them and just accept it.

A hundred meters from the main grow barn was the Tank.

Time to bring some yearn to the stern.

Steam greeting the air in an icy mist, Gus ran.

Time to make it rain.

*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

Here, the reign.

You hear the train a comin’
Just round the bend,
You know you won’t be sleeping,
When the IRS steps in.
Stuck in Fulsom Fed,
Euros or fine Yen.
But these papers keeps a-rollin’,
Down to Variance.

When I was just a new curd,
My Momma told me, “Feta,
Abide as a good cheese,
Don’t ever play with olives,”
But I shot a man in Athens,
Just cause I heard ‘em lie.
Since I hear that thistle howlin’,
Gus’s alibi.

I get there’s rich folks cheatin’,
Prestige kontiki bars,
Probably dunkin’ choda,
Troughin’ meat cigars.
But I know they had it comin’,
I know they can’t be me.
Still those people keep a-cheatin’,
It’s what tortures thee.

Greed freed me from a prison,
Road tracks made of brine,
So I check bet just a Skittle,
Satan shoves all in. Blind.
Leavin’ Fulsom Fed,
Got my papers today.
Said abide’s not a lonesome whistle,
It blows their blues away.

*abide*

 

By

Into the Void

Rocket engines burning fuel so fast
Up into the night sky they blast
Through the universe the engines whine
Could it be the end of man and time
Back on earth the flame of life burns low
Everywhere is misery and woe
Pollution kills the air, the land and sea
Man prepares to meet his destiny

Rocket engines burning fuel so fast
Up into the night sky so vast
Burning metal through the atmosphere
Earth remains in worry, hate and fear
With the hateful battles raging on
rockets flying to the glowing sun
Through the empires of eternal void
Freedom from the final suicide

Freedom fighters sent out to the sun
escape from brainwashed minds and pollution.
Leave the earth to all its sin and hate
find another world where freedom waits.
Past the stars in fields of ancient void
Through the shields of darkness where they find
Love upon a land a world unknown
where the sons of freedom make their home

Leave the earth to Satan and his slaves
leave them to their future in the grave
Make a home where love is there to stay
July 21, 1971

The fury to be cut into a mask, is made from leadership. Today, the masks are digital impressions and accomplishments masked by hard drive walls.

The paths are etched not by the soul that took it on a journey as great as the void it crossed, but by the tips of something calling for a wanton attention in the mass metallic hysteria of today. The need to generate more grunge with a new rebellious atmosphere that seems to want to forget the past, and not embrace the historic epitaph of walking legends.

There is too much going on they say, I have to remain connected to today, where the relevance is deemed necessary by the media lollipop I want to suck on.

I can’t break free, and do my own thing – that might separate me from the school.

That would be bad.

As a sardine, my sea of brine is made of brainwashed pollution.

If I get too close to the sun, I will be burned to a crisp.

Besides, i want to join some of my cousins, the lemmings for the moon walk anniversary. They are giving away hot dogs that have some kind of magic on them. If you lick them first, before you eat them, you get to see bright, vivid hallucinations of social grandeur.

A land where tales wag the tides.

The tides, move you.

If you are lucky you will find, behind this void – a gulch.

There will be no fuq given for you in that way, but that which you give.

Buy the ticket, take the ride and then...just...

*abide*

 

By

My Corona.

Well, the “experiment” has been a rousing success for me.

I think I will honour the initial 72 hours, and seeing as not a single person was confirmed, via the run on the Twitter side, it is enough to see what has happened here and how it goes.

It really is ideal, in so many ways, and of course I will, as always, buy my own burs.

Just wanting to make it clear, the “giveaway” or as some deemed it, the “money making lottery” (*such a lovely, and thankful context smirk* “So much to be able to say, to the Academy, and all those that made this happen, the tweet fluffers, the meat vine Jane’s by night, and Jerry’s by day – you all made the costumes and the facade such a wonderful place to be, a magical place to escape the reality of the days that pass, and the reasons you were able to make those dragon feet dance like Gene Kelly. Thank you…”) is no longer active, thanks to the drove by winkers, hope to see you back more “active” some day.

I got to shake the hands of the folks that know me in life, and I got a whole lot of information to help fill in a gap.

So, let’s keep this simple.

Beer/Twitter – 0

Brine Grenades – **

*sip, will drink the beer “myself”, and provide some commentary.

The iPod – well, bought and new – so will save it for the book launch.

Thank you RT’s and stars, appreciate the wave.

If you listen closely, you can hear Ghetz.

His shit don’t stink, I am sure.

*abide*

Ooh my little pretty ones, pretty ones.
When you gonna give me some time, Toobona?
Ooh you make a boater run, my motors, fun.
Gus is comin’ off the line Toobonya.
Never gonna drop, fill the cup.
Such a dirty kind. Always get it up, iFeta’s touch
on the younger blind. My my my feta woo. M M M My Souvlabona…

By

Handshake UD – NOYB 1.1

The experience continues, and the bottom line?

I am thirsty.

“Asking” for a beer, and a handshake, I would have thought that would have been very easy to do with the offer of leaving an iPod behind for the lucky winner of the back-of-the-napkin raffle. It is a 3rd Generation, 4GB, iPod Shuffle and it is new. and the posts are right below this one. Here is the the shortcut to the original post, in case the “napkin” has some feta or brine juice on it.

It can get pretty spunky, so providing a daily update for those that think this is “twerk” or about making money.

So far, 6 Tweets of my own, that have been RT from me, non from here direct but one single solitary Zippo. Connected the crosshairs with a direct S/O and for that, am always grateful. This “code” is pretty simple, there has been one RT – so, interesting to note the impressions and the hits, but what about extended handshakes?

Trench warfare is not easy, smells like pretzels down here.

Twitter – 17 users, 33 interactions
Twitter Statistics:
Stars (n/a): 24
RT: 9
RT (*beer): 0

“Longevity is created, not spurred.” – Gus

Friends Family: **
RT (*beer): 0*
BG:**
*none of these friends have not RT, or will not be eligible until they do. The likelihood of that is barely registered, they are the support and kinship of another kind. I am most grateful for their generosity, and affirmations of abide in and of themselves. Support comes in many ways, as does wealth.
**NOYB – None of Your Business represents the fictional title of the “free” research piece that will flow from this approximate week, and it is going to include a groundbreaking revelation about the “Buy the Book” principle. It may or may not involve the last series of months of discovery, and will be interesting to get for free, as the trial lift, pre-release of the “Orange Grass Abides” piece, the title of which is different.

Anybody who demands brutal honesty and transparency from me, is to be granted the same opportunity at any given time.

“It is never madness. It is just about deemed reasons justified as an intent.” – Gus

Hotel Abide.

Demand brutal honesty and transparency from another, but be prepared to grant the same to opportunity and its concequences, logical repurcussions or cerebral sutra.

Two spreadsheets and a microphone.

*abide*

By

Armada Class, Range 20K-MTNS-FU

You do things because you do.

Not because it is some game.

Or you have to.

You simply do.

Seems simple, but even the method to the madness is not so easy to live when life is there.

An escape from it, from the boring – from the places you have been, and the one that you don’t want to return to.  We all have them.

We also have another thing in common.

Solids.

Time filters them, and the elements still flow into a river.

A small river, a burning bushman tribe of elixir pushers stand in wonder at how it got there.

Not for any other reason, than to just be said the skies.

As they rained thunder and sunshine, drops of dew and mystery.
Daffodils in the fields that danced with the Dead bears and the phish.
All coming from the same place you do.
We do, that is why we are here.

To just be.

Hop on the carpet man, I promise it will be a ride.

Your lane dude – get sum.

@mrtruthandsoul. aka, MTNS.

publicly traded, never faded.
hard as rock, paid and J-aided.

*abide*

MTNS 20K Armada Abide – Brine Grenade – Gulch032112HB from Fetaman Abides on Vimeo because Creative Commons with credit is deemed bad in some countries by the machine. Click on Vimeo link if YouTard is being fuqtarded..

By

Stapler, used to gather paper with a single bind.

“You would get sick of any stapler, any desk…any dream. You would, and if you haven’t, then you are not alive.”

Gus, it’s his biography. Just like the brineday, and the second period after the.

Catch up.

The videos tell some of the tale, the rest is in the head.

Whose, well…

that is to be seen…

or read.

But go ahead, ask yourself that question – if you could, would you? What if it was not really a long standing dream, so much as some kind of kick, from some ingested invisible brown acid?

What if that involved saying fuck it to that fucking piece of shit chow lung tool, near the faux walls and the artificial boundaries? Truly doing it past the bar stool, past the bullshit, pulling the trigger on something you only chirp about having the balls to do? What if that was just something that had to be done?

What if you knew, nothing then of what the real meaning of orange grass was?

Really, not as simple as it sounds…according to Gus, who has agreed to tell his tale.

The regularly scheduled episodes of life will proceed for myself, Fetaman – some form of them, is always around.

But I must admit, I am personally fascinated with Gus.

Not your typical Gus.

“You have never lost it in a Bored meeting, until you have shown them genitalia flesh tones.”

Gus fed me that one, I got to give him credit, I agree – what a difference a vowels stroke makes.

The conspiracy, and the tales.

As real as I have ever seen, but please, take that for what it is worth – hell, I am just a walking cheesy pseudonym man. Just a guy, rolling along the gig man.

The toll is the ignorance we pay, forgetting to live the moments so you can count the lines on the highway. How many lines in My Way? Frank’s and Gus’s seem to match up, mine.

Diluted in brine.

Own ’em, at your own pace. It’s not a race…is it…

*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

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