fetaman.com

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

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

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

Buffett On Acid.

The wizard came up in the daily readings.

So I have decided to honour some of the requests and include some shorter pieces, that will have the readers of the site and the engaged Twitter heads et al, enjoying some of the observations. It has been a request, and I figure that since I am using the creative side of the miles walked to get to the end of the book that is being published, why not just hop over here and make sure to note some of the “logic” behind the tweets.

Brilliant, hard to understand all the time, but genius” is a great compliment to flatter any ego, and I have fought hard to not be such a blatant “self-promotion” machine, but fetaman.com is a site that has been created, and kept whole to illustrate the range of writing, and various styles along with media, so as to ensure that it has some co-operative and reactive elements to it.

Books can be so static and don’t allow for more of the interactions, as such, how about some “common thoughts” or pokes and prods at what the tweet was intended to mean, and where it may take another on the journey in their own minds according to what I may be able to see from this awesome Herman Miller. (*shameless plug on how great the product is, and more importantly the amazing team at Design Within Reach that not only helped provide it, but have made sure to keep it serviced and sorted. Yes, that is right. An ergonomic cloud, that actually has jet packs that hover over the atmosphere, much like the attitude of Andrew and Jen, two great team members that are rock solid. No there is not “compensation” received for this plug, it is just part of what happens to come out of the writing at the time, and maybe will help see the “social ethics” of passing on good information, and pro-active stuff, not only the negative stuff)

So here are some of my thoughts, on a respected mentor. Consider all of my good fortune in the roast, please or do not consider it all. For to do it an injustice, would be to do the same to the intent of the respectful prod and admiration that is bestowed in the musings of a man, made of feta cheese.

Quite the fuqtarded piece of cheese at that.

*sip

The illusion of eternity, or the concept of it becomes a bit of place from which to consider all things. Especially relevant during the “invisible brown acid” stages of the adventure, this concept of space and time melts into a need to find great joy in the simplicity of things. If an egg beater has value when beating eggs, then it must also have just as much value or more perhaps in other things, and as such, I am going to hold this until such time as I can find a way of proving that the return on my investment, is the memory. Never undervalue that.

The “hand tossed” of the bread business is just not generic enough. It is lovely to consider at home, but at the Buffett home price is always the object. Said price is always a “wonderful” (*man uses this word a lot, always in awe of life, well played – truly makes the magic carpet ride a better one.) gauge for the “value” derived from it, and that value is not only the digestion of the bread, but the items that are the byproducts of the sale of it.

Always aware of his time, and even more so, the limit of it regardless of who you are, allows this one to bring out a bit of a smirk. To have tripped balls so hard you can not only not see the watch, but you logically begin to discover some small feelings of paranoia related to not being aware of time, and that just takes you further into the rabbit hole? Pretty soon tea with the rabbit is a reality for all, whether he is a single pipe smoking rabbit or not, that remains to be seen. Is Warren the pipe smoking rabbit?

This has so many levels of delicious that it should have you Googling for the word “MLACH” – it is a 5 letter word for good tasting. It is dated, but it is delicious during times of festive diversion. Who bribes? Them, or him? Is the swimming with sharks, or in a pool? Is this a figurative swim, or a literal one? Wait a second, Michael Moore did that film on the corruption side of corporate America and he proved that today the banks are not giving out guns anymore, that is politically incorrect, so it is brides then right? *sip

If you are too young to need to get a reference about the Grateful Dead, that is all I can say to bring you up to speed. Futures and core longevity plays are his gig, he is not one to go fast on just about anything except paper. He loves to go fast and furious on paper. It is the modern chess masters pawn, and the simplicity of it does not diminish the compound rice applications across the board of a simple 64 square plate. Not a game of kings at all. Nope, not at all. Nor is math.

Sheeple, the concept of latin with business to create a new term that almost always work if you have the right situation, context and delivery. I am sure that Warren does not use talc like normal people. He has made allusions to unicorns to many times, and it is clear. He actually uses unicorn dust on his balls to keep them dry at all times. At the end of the day, he has 13 of his pupils arrive to map and scope the tea bag readings from the day. All of the results are gathered into empirical data pivot tables, and matrix macro gyrations facilitate the next days trading activities.

I know, it all sounds weird.

I can imagine, you think just because it is Friday, I am on this invisible brown acid again.

Well, not entirely.

I am never off of it.

It is what I signed up for when I got my life back.

Go on, shake it.

It’s just a fetaglobe.

*abide*

By

Stink no more.

Fear and the Monkey

by William S. Burroughs

August 1978

This text arranged in my New York loft, which is the converted locker room of an old YMCA. Guests have reported the presence of a ghost boy. So this is a Oui-Ja board poem taken from Dumb Instrument, a book of poems by Denton Welch, and spells and invocations from the Necronomicon, a highly secret magical text released in paperback. There is a pinch of Rimbaud, a dash of St-John Perse, an oblique reference to Toby Tyler with the Circus, and the death of his pet monkey.

Turgid itch and the perfume of death
On a whispering south wind
A smell of abyss and of nothingness
Dark Angel of the wanderers howls through the loft
With sick smelling sleep
Morning dream of a lost monkey
Born and muffled under old whimsies
With rose leaves in closed jars
Fear and the monkey
Sour taste of green fruit in the dawn
The air milky and spiced with the trade winds
White flesh was showing
His jeans were so old
Leg shadows by the sea
Morning light
On the sky light of a little shop
On the odor of cheap wine in the sailors’ quarter
On the fountain sobbing in the police courtyards
On the statue of moldy stone
On the little boy whistling to stray dogs.
Wanderers cling to their fading home
A lost train whistle wan and muffled
In the loft night taste of water
Morning light on milky flesh
Turgid itch ghost hand
Sad as the death of monkeys
Thy father a falling star
Crystal bone into thin air
Night sky
Dispersal and emptiness.

*abide*

 

By

Souvlaki wine, magic chop.

Good morning, Gus here. Fetaman has left me alone. So I was reading a string of articles in the Globe and Mail this morning, and it had started with the Rob Carrick article titled “Job seeker on Gen Y’s struggles: “I didn’t think I’d be here at 30’”  A very interesting piece that illustrates a telling tale of a cycle, that is all about context. I am fond of the context smirk often, in fact, Fetaman uses it a lot. I introduced it to him. Yeah, I am anxious to weigh in on a number of matters, and consider “right.”

From there I had proceeded to click on a link of his that spoke of this blogger (*financefox.ca) and how the practiced “No Spend Days”. This new cult of personality has recently popped up more and more since the days of the Cappuccino Hair Bands. Seems so long ago, but those were good days.

Making your own coffee in the office. Being proud you saved that couple of bucks, and taking it to the next level. *context smirk* That was divine, grand. Divine. Hell, you even went out and bought $164.73 of sealable and transportable containers to be able to take in leftovers, and soon enough, you could even be shopping each day for fresh little bits of delight you could proudly boast in the office as the bundle of joy you are.

Mmmmmmmmm…Berry Pomegranite Mio…

So is my desire to sit here and start to “complain” or whine about what needs to be done, and how tough it may be out there to do what you need to do or why you choose to do it?

Not quite – I am more aligned, and of the same opinion ranges as this writer speaks of, in his reply to the initial letter written to Rob Carrick. It is titled “Why this 29-year-old believes Gen Y doesn’t have it that bad.”

No, I think I would rather look at the positive side of it all. Just like you do? Consider how if you really look at the “richness” that you have in your life, surrounding you, and you have adjusted the means and the ends for the “revenue” you seek in your life, then you will be able to live on much less of a “spend” from the financial side. Fuck. The opposing side of this Yang, is that Ying requires a lot more work and effort, they balance each other, and Ying is sparing when it comes to creature comforts. He lives in a way that many feel romantic about, until their month of joy has been eroded to menial tasks that will provide warmth, and food, and joy of a kind found only in the mountains of the mind. Chopping fucking wood in minus 30 degree weather, with a senior citizen is not exactly a fucking task for the faint of heart. But when you have a purpose, to make some wine, the challenge was that my wine was a vine. The grapes were “different”.

Wine is wine. It is from grapes, sweet or sour. It is fermented with time. It inebriates, as does it’s main ingredient. It swirls and aerates the elixirs of the mind, providing the same intoxicating reflections, effects, lapses of memory, depressions, joys, good times and bad times, wealth and poverty. All of it, inebriated by time.

Time makes the vine grow. Time makes the orange show.

Syntax changes today, and the only difference becomes how we consume the whine.

Consider weight of the whine, as something that has to be measured. It must be qualified. So you have to add subjective measurements such as age, and quantity or size, is the whine intelligent with an IQ that is acceptable and has been given a good “score” by the ratings guru’s, pundits and promoters and readers.

The readers can see, that the whine has an h in it. The listeners, will have to imagine that, to have the capacity to draw that conclusion themselves. It ain’t easy drawing conclusions at any age, is it?

Is this any different life at any of these ages? Of course there are, at different stages of life, your conclusions will be driven by what it is that has been delineated by the “age” – time, credentials, net worth, penis size, cup size…I-fucking-Q.  It Is all about your form. The world has changed and physical versus cerebral and cognitive empirical measures and subjective objectivity are always important boundaries to look at when you determine where you are. They are the fence posts on the Parameter acreage you own from birth. Expanding it or contracting it, is an environmental manifestation of the physical reality called you.

As humans, we then automatically create a stigma, a dogma, a viewpoint on other’s from our own experiences, and find entertainment in the universe of the mind as we consider how we like some things, and despise others. Why we are more entitled to something, than that other person who clearly is not as good as we are, so you must beat them back or harm them in some way to proceed. Of course, the second that many of you read that you pounced from the mental soap box to scream of your charity work, and your giving nature and all that you do to be kind, caring and some form of a religion based deity that has wings and can solve your problems.

Well, so can a shitload of Red Bulls and Vodka.

Trust me, it is only a temporary fix.

Just like breakfast of Corn Flakes and Crown Royal.

Just like plugging into a shit J.O.B. – it may sound like some kind of multi-level marketing jingle to have you sign on the dotted line so you can eventually move to Bora Bora after you make the millions saving your friends and families money on basic cable, phones, internet – and you are right. I had heard it from a douchebag, that was a miserable failure trying to build his life back up by telling lies, fuck him. Fuck anyone who is going to try to continue build up their lives using lies and not revealing them, and that is a very important reflection point is for me, and in fact it appears society is very clear. Honesty is the most valuable currency in this day and age, and transparency, as a result of it, whether you like it or not, is here.

I honestly do believe that a job is “Just Over Broke”.

No matter what kind of wealth you have, you are living within your means. You believe, that if the Jones’s are indeed driving that car, and have a debt ratio of X:Y, then yes, you too can be living within your means, if the means, become your own. If you accept “them”, then by natural collusion, you will unite with their means. Their means.

Means judged by others.

Not my fucking gig, thanks.

So does that then make me right, or am I wrong?  Who has a right that is more important – can one right shove all-in on another and always be the Royal Fucking Flush? Are these physical rights or spiritual rights? Does this right consider the right and just associates and peers, fellows and humans that sit beside us, in this commune circle delineated by the chairs we sit on?

Each right is different in it’s own way, until you fly a little higher by whatever means you need to so you can spend a little time with Jonathon. Silly fucking seagull, or prophet of understanding that at this height, they are all just big box store data points that lead to one giant balance sheet in the sky.

Immigrant parents came and worked like dogs. Literally.

Wandering the streets to find jobs, or trying to build them and having them fail, into bankruptcy.

There is one very simple solution to all of this bullshit, fuck.

Stop the victim thinking. Just think internal. The only victim has been my own self victimizing itself and blaming others.

Stop your fucking whining, and make your own wine with no h.

Drink it, enjoy it. It is the elixir of life.

It will change your life.

For the better, it always does.

But remember, my wine is not a vine. My vine, is actually orange grass.

“It will change your life for the better.” Always does.

Your wine, my vine. I found that vine because I looked for the orange in everyday. Somedays I chose to share it.

The world becomes a better place.

Other days I choose to nurture it, make sure you do so in order to help it become a belief grenade.

In the past, those belief grenades have changed. They have been brine grenades, taint grenades, the have been lie grenades.

What I do know, whatever you do,  when you do launch it…people will realize for what it is.

Me? I am just launching a biography. About myself. Gus Xortopoulas.

I will tell you right now, the grass, it’s fucking orange.

*abide*

 

By

Bytoine

Bytoine:

a chemical synthesis of products created from bytes of data, that have a heroine like addiction by working within the firings and the data subsets of the neurological mind and the world it creates. This socially synthesized product, is not only being fed into the very essence of life, but in fact, it is creating physical changes to body, mind and soul that few are aware of, and even fewer are working on means to an end of their own satisfaction, and not the plastic covered optical fibres demanding tolls without full disclosure of the costs, and the implications.

The days of the chalk and a sidewalk, or sand and a beach with a Crown n Coke and a fattie, looking at the sunset, as the ladies finish off the meal and a brother is standing near asking what to do with the roach we all know needs to kiss the sand…did it’s job…they have been synthesized, metamorphosis of the inks that were told by the aging of the skin, and not the colouring of it. Products of a virtual reality, a logical illusion that continues to drive the non-believers into the gate ahead of Buffalo Jump.

What, it is a tourist attraction for the locals, don’t be afraid Mr. Buffalo – all is good ahead, please just proceed at will. This prod is only here to remind you of the tools you gave to Snowball, and Boxer, and Mollie and Moses, Clover. They have appeared at the farm, they have been part of the gulch.

I am aware of them, like the touch of the cards underneath the fingertips when you got back in from recess and were able to go right to the library, and just sit in that circle and listen to the most beautiful words being spoken from a book. The magic of the words, and the weight they would carry in your life would always be speckled and flavoured with the images of the lands you could escape to. Two? Oh, Jacob – that is just a hooded hipster trying to pretend he is the Hooded Fang, look, he has perfect fucking teeth from the trust fund – don’t be silly.

Writing instruments? Pencils and pens, and the old purple Ditto ink, gone the way of the portables that dotting the server farms that are forming collectives of a new order. Of a digital imprint, or a trail that is becoming a trip, that I am reluctant to want to partake in, but find it necessary to remain on the farm called Earth, just where – that is the real essence of the questioning. With so much more behind it, that I would affirm with no hesitation, that I could not profess to know another’s questioning, it is not possible.

But I do know, we will both smile, if we are of the certain age and reference a pencil sharpener mounted on the wall, next to the brass bell. The long cotton, braided chord hanging there as a reminder that this physical act would stir an instinct, one Pavlov knew so well, and with the flick of hand, fate would take the programmed mechanical mind and have 32 children open the desktop.

It is wooden, and hinged. Inside, the pencil cases and the stacked books ordered. In another’s is chaos and anarchy by choice, or by lack of proper programming.

It is not different today is it?

Spike that vein, watch the line flicker in front of you like some green and bland ticking that is a heartbeat away from Rampart, 1-Adam-12 or a graphical interface hinged upon an encrypted drive to prevent the spouse from discovering the matrix is not what it seems.

How could it be.

If you are trying to spot a freight train, or a brine tsunami…

hard to do with the minds eye, wide shut.

One thing I do know, and Gus has confirmed it.

The grass is orange.

*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

An Overture apo Gus

A small reflection, a sent.

Gus.

Orange, off-grid.
Alive.

Cents not of the copper odour.
Alas, seven of the sins covered the merger.
Cognitive gavels, and as ominous as the Francophone moose.

The moose was a trip.
Ghetz, is not.

If you are asking what colour it has to be, maybe you can’t walk in it.

For shame, it is kind of like a runway, but with one fucking hell of a bunch of interesting pilots.

That smoke, or fog?

*abide*

By

The Questionnaire: Hunter S Thompson

Hunter S Thompson, 60, was born in Kentucky. Jailed for robbery when a teenager, he went on to become a journalist and writer. He was credited with inventing the New Journalism in 1970 – after his stream-of-consciousness account of a week-long bender with illustrator Ralph Steadman – and ‘gonzo’ journalism, for his oddball style in works such as Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Fire, breaking glass and constant explosions.

What is your greatest fear?
Having all my blood sucked out by strangers.

With which historical figure do you most identify?
Benjamin Franklin, coz he loved electricity, and Charles Manson, coz he loved freedom.

Which living person do you most admire?
Fidel Castro, never mind why.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Generosity.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Weakness and failure.

What objects do you always carry with you?
A hookah, shotgun, ben-wa balls, and a fork.

What makes you depressed?
I went to the wilderness once and killed four pigs. This has depressed me for too long. Ralph Steadman also depresses me.

What is your favourite smell?
The smell of cordite.

What is your favourite building?
The tomb of Genghis Khan.

What is your favourite journey?
LSD-25.

What is your favourite fantasy?
In my dreams I am a beautiful naked rhinoceros kidnapped by dolphins and dragged out to sea.

What is your most unappealing habit?
Stealing.

Should the Royal Family be scrapped?
No, send them to prison.

Do you believe in capital punishment?
Absolutely.

Do you believe in monogamy?
Yes.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?
Jilly, drugs, guns, whisky, speed and water.

Which person do you most despise?
Hitler – he was filthy.

How do you relax?
Necrophilia.

Do you believe in life after death?
Yes, they are the same.

How would you like to be remembered?
‘He was polite.’

What is the most important lesson life has taught you?
To hate the police and to always drive the fastest car on the road.

*note the original can be found here, and is referenced as written by Rosanna Greenstreet for The Guardian, Saturday 27 December 1997 and published at 18.22 GMT. Fifteen years later, to the day, I bow humbly, and can almost imagine the dignity and hubris he presented during this exchange. Long live “Two Thumbs” Thompson. *abide in eternity fine sir, abide.