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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

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

Camel’s nose.

Twinkle, twinkle little star,
how no gives fuck, you who are.
Wish you would,
wish you might,
walk beneath the northern lights.

Logic.

Such a fickle, but empirical miracle.

  • ad hummusin – attacking the chick peas instead of the tahini. #fetallacies
  • Straw Monk – an argument based on misrepresentation of an opponent’s zeal and their use of the word hey. #fetallacies
  • Butlerverism (Psychogintonic) – inferring why an argument is being used, associating it to invalid pink elephants and results. #fetallacies
  • Defeminist fallacy – confusion between two spouses by defining one serving the other chocolate, pedicures and the remote. #fetallacies
  • Red Earring – random objects, appear from a portal linked to the Bermuda Triangle. Do not confirm anything, you were at 7/11. #fetallacies
  • Patheocracy fallacy – when an inanimate object is declared to have characteristics of animate objects, so they can be worshipped. #fetallacies
  • Galloping Gish – fish, with hooves, millions of them teaming towards the Venn diagrams, unable to be brought down. #fetallacies
  • Appeal to @Sprite – dunk type of appeal to @Sprite which involves @Sprite sending me 365 cases I might*  hand out each day. #fetallacies
  • Tu quoque (“you too”) – if you can not pronounce this logical argument, just think small cuckoo clock. Look a ball. #fetallacies
  • Misleading vividness – invisible brown acid, where exceptional occurrences can convince people to pay to coalwalk for Anthony. #fetallacies
  • If-by-whiskey – an argument is always automatically won, if you are drunk as fuck on whiskey and giveth nye fuqq’eth. #fetallacies
  • Mind ejection fallacy – when one considers the way they/it tweet(s) the world as a giant vat of syphilis or daffodils/lilacs. #fetallacies
  • Circular treasoning – trees come alive in a forest, and try to eat you, cause forefathers wronged generations of pulp fiction #fetallacies

*abide*