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

By

Push.

Push the little daisies.

Such irony in the term “push”.

Acts of such, odd context.

But you are right.

You no, what you know at your own discretion.

Just cause, applause?

A pause, to push.

The result, as the man thinketh remains with time to be the falling of the part.

Freedom such, the chores.

Odd, to just know.

Then again.

*abide*

By

Happy Father’s Day Momma.

I was pretty much raised by my mother.

My dad was there for some of it, but he was an abusive alcoholic. “Known” bad-ass, and made sure everyone dug it. We never did as children, I mean the guns in the basement were normal right? Who needed to play just hockey down there – why not do it with a Luger as one post and sub-machine gun as the other? Fuck it, it was the 1970’s man. Never had a hand raised to use from him. Not me at least, and to the best of my knowledge and reflection the one that got thrown down the stairs, or beaten again and again – shamed – was the lady that gave me birth.

The mother, my mother.

A documented miracle.

I got a few of ’em.

*sip

A pioneer in the 1970’s. When a woman would never leave her husband without fear of serious issues in the public eye, in the private eye or through a black eye. It was the era when one more for the road meant a six-pack by the time Creedance guided the LTD down the black ribbon with innocent children in the back and an abused woman in the front now knowing what the closed doors might bring.

We left with holes in our shoes.

This is no lie, we hid.

The YWCA, for months. In a basement of cinder blocks and 68% complete board games. We made our own games up, we were children. We did not know what was really happening, but we knew it had to happen.

Home was not safe anymore.

When I hung up the phone that day, in downtown Oshawa it was I alone who had to tell my mother that he would not be told to do anything by anyone, and if he wanted to fucking drink, he would.

Fuck us all.

The real father was the one who did not get out of the car, on the off-ramp to take a piss cause he was so hammered. He figured his son was the assistant-captain of the hockey team, and since we were the third car, they would wait. They could see his rancid twin as it flashed in the beams of the cars floating by wondering if what they were seeing was real.

It was, the real father made sure he was never there again in that position. She made sure as the real father, that we would be protected, as protected as we could be. Fed, as well as we could be. As strong, and as smart as we could be.

We all could be anything we wanted, all we had to do was believe.

So I did.

We were so poor, I had to learn to change a toilet at the age of 14 cause there was no way food money was going to be used to pay someone to do what a real man could do.

My father, she worked harder than anyone I have ever seen to this day.

Perhaps that is where I learned that 18 hour days are for pussies. You will read about it, see the photo’s from around the world. The newspaper clippings, and the “international business entourage”.

You want to succeed, you find another 3 hours in you, at least.

You want to be the best?

Find seven more.

The stories are part of the inspiration to the “works” that are coming out.

Sure, they have taken some time – but they came off hot.

Too hot.

No person has the obligation to share all the details of their life for the sake of another’s entertainment. I would argue that obligation is to the self, if you have the ability to wade through a lifetime of memories and reflections separated by fact or fiction.

It is all fiction.

Life is a lie.

It has to be, there is not a single person in the world who can determine the entire mathematical proof of 20 million-billion firings PER SECOND.

I was sure of this until today, when it dawned on me.

I am 100% sure that I have a clear, and absolute awareness that my “father” – was a single mom, who left on a way to become one of the ladies that made the world what it is today.

You think I am kidding, then you best be moving on.

Shit is about to get more real than anything ever before, and I don’t give a fuck.

My hands are in the air, and I’m gonna wave ’em like I don’t care.

It’s Father’s Day tomorrow, and two of the finest gifts in the world are mine.

A biological asshole is “residing” in Hell, and I adore believing that.

More importantly, I get to spend Father’s Day with my mom.

The grass is orange.

It is any colour you want it to be.

Happy Father’s Day Momma.

I am proud to be who I am, where I am – and doing what I do to make sure the world knows.

You are the reason why I know real moms are made of magic.

Because you are.

I love you, forever.

*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*

By

come4. Freedom.

To think how you want.

To be what you want.

To appreciate the life you have.

To not give a fuck about the judgement or the need to conform the requirements that others demand, but you are to be stripped of.

To find dignity in the cause, and doing the right thing.

Freedom – you have that right, of course.

*sip

To the men and women, regardless of their voice and their choice, who hold it high and fill the jar full of the fuq’s given…and all of those with open minds, and new frontiers, this is the world we live in, and the judgment is yours, mine is reserved for when I shake the cerebral joints, in the hands of the men and women who challenge convention with ethical, moral and logical anarchy to the degree of sum.

Two parts of an equation, from the come4.org website are quoted below and can be accessed by clicking on them, they are linked to the landing page;

“Sex” is the top word searched on Internet. With nearly 100 Billion of yearly revenues, the porn industry is one of the greatest markets online. Unfortunately, it is also one of the less ethical and transparent ones. Many people consuming free pornography think that the only risk they may run into is that of being discovered by others. This idea, however, is not just naïve, but also wrong, for the current model of consuming online sexual contents has many negative implications for all of us.”

“Provided no one is harmed and that everything is legal, is there any reason why part of these revenues cannot be used for better ends?”

THE LOVER from a group that launches belief grenades come4.org, an open mind organization

Stance has nothing to do with stand.

I have everything to do with place, and grace.

Of intellect, and of choice.

Respect of it, and the ubiquity that is allowed by it.

Freedom, to “allow” to exist is a criminal act, not an orange kite.

It is grand, there is no human that should not find joy without this freedom.

The wind prompts no harsh world, unless it holds its own.

The grass, it is orange.

It really is.

*abide*