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

By

Wince saws.

There has been a change in governing.

No shit Einstein.

It has to change, since the foundation of it in the roots of democracy it has always changed. It has to, as a living and breathing thing, it will change. It can not remain static, for to be so would be death alone.

Mention concrete here, and stone. I would love to smirk and just look in gap eyed wonder, and maybe point to or circle the word living again. I get tired of doing this in life, and I am not going to be doing it virtually all the time, sure you can call me an asshole for actually understanding what I am smirking about – but I don’t judge the quality of my life by such measures.

Seriously.

I judge this by the quality of the living I am participating in, or not. This includes the nations and the culture of participation within those collections of people and intellects of varying degrees.

I consider myself gifted, so what?

I also consider myself an idiot, a fuqtard by choice in various propensities.

Confusing?

Not at all, if you can dig that there is no black and white.

But sure, you go ahead and take a look at this – tell me, is it black or white? Can it be summarized in a 140 tweet, and then passed on to provide a clear and absolute reflection of an ideology? Is it right to sit back and laugh at an entire nation as powerful as the USA, and claim all the problems can be solved if only they listened to the “people”?

The machine is real. It can not be stopped, it can be merely be mitigated.

Yes, the levers pulled behind the curtain by the small wizards, the one that has Dorothy so intimidated has been exposed.

However Dorothy is much more advanced in her ways also.

So they just sit there, in this cold stare.

Waiting for something, someone to help them.

This is where the director comes in. Some of the stage hands flutter by, or an arm appears in the window that is showing us the full glory of the moon. Truman is having a coffee break, and the world decides it is time to change the laundry over and grab an Oreo.

All the world is a stave, and music is playing.

The tone of it, and where you listen will both reflect what you hear.

How you interpret it will always be a function of the quality of you.

Not me, I am too busy studying the effects of Zoloft economics and Prozac politics.

I have always been fascinated by the invisible brown acid, and as far as strange trips go following the logic along the path of the below illustration, wonderfully defined for a sober second thought provision afforded by those of us that know we can’t change the world, but we sure to fuck can change the station to the shit they are telling us to listen to.

The information rainbow holds so much more than just pots of gold.

There are pots of many kind.

Some even have orange grass.

iFeta

Sometimes, you can feel the cold chill of the blades. Different shapes, and with different hammers that hold force for longer than most men breath in a lifetime. Then they release, and move to another foundation. Quarry for a query, a calm for the blink that you wish you could get back. Those tasks are not meaningless. You will forever be part of the concrete. Fabric of the masses, such pride.

*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

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*