fetaman.com

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

By

Bacon Masturbation, 31 days.

The Baconbate Experience (TBE)

It is hard today, with all of the traditional porn looking to stretch the limits and somehow engage the generation that was born to masturbate more.

It is what has helped quell wars, set nations back on the path of not burning ethnic people at the stake, so the condemned could be burned at the stake. It was a suffering that brought us to today, do you think heretics allowed you buy your bread fresh for at least 10 days if you keep the small plastic snap on the right way after the twist, as you wonder – should I jerk off, before of after this sandwich?

Sandwiches naturally produce the jerk off question.
Proven by the Gallop-Knuckle Pull, a pole by most other actions.

Please, let me cut to the chase.

Each of the following 31 moves were going to be used in a book, they may still be so, as I retain the right and the ownership of my content.

I had to prove that masturbating 31 times, in a single month (*easy by most standards, very actually) – but I had to do this with bacon, raw or cooked, in some manner.

It was the hardest $1,000 I had earned, but I figured. Few are actually given sperm donor wage, for chunking at home and taking the odd snapshot of bacon in Secret pantyhose. Don’t worry, there are 5 ways pantyhose are needed, and two involve boiling and cooling the bacon before jerking off with it.

Be warned.

This is not for the weekday horoscope crowd looking to justify a sad existence.
This is for those of us, the few, the bold, the pioneers.

The day someone defines how, when, what, where and why I am chunking the magic curtain in an epileptic fit of wax-on/wax-off…ko-knee-chi-wa.

  1. Marble ball; the bacon is pushed through an olive pitter, creating a creamier mix. The mash is pressed into 6 melon ball scoops that are dipped in liquid nitrogen to create small ben-wah balls threaded with floss. A flaming stick is inserted into the colon before the string is placed in, the Recipient needing to ask “why” it must be real may scream for help. This is religion for some.
  2. Salt Sponge; layers of coral sponge are sliced into equal size and strips of bacon, they are then woven together, and steamed in a dim-sum steam basket after they have been rolled in Judaic salt from the Dead Sea. It is critical that the fluid has tears from 6 virgins, 3 male/3 female, so that they remain blessed by the same God that allows them to think the sun rising on their corrupt factory is going to allow them to succeed. It is gently used over the sexual organs as various ancient languages are muttered by the practices of the freedom chosen.
  3. Squeezed Jam; in a crock pot, beer is allowed to be the primary Sea for the bacon to melt within. Doing so, allows the final jelly to be of a beautiful texture. Most tourists agree, or 7/10, that indeed the feeling is best described as “nutella in my soul” – please do not ask more about this, it is perhaps one of the worst ways to experience it, but it must be told. Thrice annually we speak of it, twice you have a choice to attend beyond vespers. Those are for the selected ones, and all have been pre-qualified with a medical exam.
  4. Bacon pads: large mounds of brisket are baked at varying temperatures to mimic the foam padding used in 1980’s high schools, hoping more machismo would fuel future generations of hope, Tom Cruise pre-Scientolichlamydius, and rancid NSA taps. *although dozens of other agencies need to be noted at STD inducing, and UCLA is expected to announce a Ghostbuster study about said bullshit, but only after the Cliff’s bar announcement is made. Arnold said he has more back now than ever, ola Pepe; By allowing small extensions in the corner of the pads, tickling items can cup the balls, or be wired for clit-action, and provide hands-free, public transit masturbation.
  5. Pork Swiffer; seriously, have to explain this? Put bacon on the bottom of the Swiffer, Mountain Scent is the best, and then proceed to mop the floor. Jizz, or squirt in front of you, then cook bacon when done. Give to neighbor you hate. Fucker needs to enjoy with alcohol free beer.
  6. Toes ‘n goes; using small origami folds, tiny Booklets of Bacon are left in the toes, during a shower. Not for the weak of heart, the water must be scalding and you can use Crisco or butter for the soap, but be liberal. In the Basque regions, scallops can be placed between the thicker toes, or the longer second/dominant toe that most men are said to own when they are fucking whipped, net weight not a factor. Deep Scottish roots claim, inhabitants of the moors used to bake bread in the sealed cracks of their asses, in ancient times, but Jacque Caruso did not find proof, although was deeply satisfied according to his handlers.
  7. Bacon Icecumber; the inner shaft of the cucumber is peeled to allow smooth (*can be skin on, but be aware of potential hemorrhoid implications if soothing balms are not available) interaction as the juice of the bacon wrap melts, along with the core. The key to making this “bacon baton” is the wrapping method, and either the Captain Morgan’s Spiced Bum method or the Tequila Meatworm approach work best.
  8. Giving the Cat Some ‘Tupper; a variation of the famed “Giving the Cat a Bath” sex move, it allows a small hole to be cut into a Tupperware bowl of appropriate size to fit the preferred piece of flesh be dipped, squeezed is just as important an adjective so use soft Tupperware, or Rubbermaid shit, you want to avoid cutting anything (*or choose to, but, fuck choice is a personal mandate) and have some fun with it. One note of interest, is that most people past certain ages fail to allocate enough space in the container for the SF (Sag Factor, or sulferus fuqnastiness) and should use the same system as paint, wallpaper, and upholstery by providing an extra 10-15% of their best estimate.
  9. OJ’s Bacon Coiler; another boiled approach. This one should involve a bacon bee-nest-bun approach for more effect. Think “I Love Lucy” hair, and Ricky ramba-Cuban. The only way to get sexy time in solitary, and do push ups, is to scream with each thrust, “This fit the bacon glove?” and push harder. White Bronco wallpaper would add for a wild trip on this approach, and not my thing, but fuck, no filter.
  10. Foreman Sear-it & Moan; a rather harsh approach to finding the line between different and bored, the participant wraps genitals in bacon and begins to gyrate to Wham, some going to the elaborate lengths of even going to the local discount grocer who has you take the garbage from the store for free instead of letting the Cardboard Monarchy charge ’em for the privilege so that you can create bathroom stalls in your kitchen or near a noted outlet. Closing in on the maximum temperature of the grill you desire, pre-squirt the hot plate – place genitals in Foreman. Slam it shut. Keeping in for long durations and being chained to the grease dish are all approaches you may want to discuss with your mistress/mister.
  11. Porky Klingon; using one of the dozens of pre-cut egg carton sections you have saved, hand painted, and dusted with Betty Crocker Frosting and candy bits, and using the thick blue elastic from the broccoli, thereby turning it into a Porky the Pig nose, gently sew bacon on to your ears in the form of a Klingon. Experience dictates you sew the first pieces on the counter, shape them, then use just a few piercings to minimize scaring and marking that may have you appear abnormal at the abattoir.
  12. Bacon Duster; using your favorite scent of Pine-sol, dip the bacon strips into the dilution after it has been tied firmly using fabric coated pipe cleaners. Note, some use color here, or go for the barbed style, decorate as you wish. Maids dress in relevant garb and dust the dirtiest parts first allowing any pieces that fall to be marinated in the sheets. Yes, plastic wrap was a good idea to mention heads up, but it may have prevented you from being so engrossed you can only now imagine that bacon being in a hollandaise lobster Benedicked.
  13. 007-F: *Classified*
  14. Bacon Battleship; floating barges of bacon, of various sizes and crispiness (*buoyancy, steerability, wave motion attributes that will come as close to plastic grids with holes on them, and a disposition to always think of masturbation conditions in das Boot) are in a bathtub. Bubble bath Islands can act as imaginary rock, or be tiny bubbles that can not stand the force of the shot from your “ballteship” or “haircraft carrier”.
  15. Oasis Sandpaper; adding some natural sand, if you wish, or simply using very crunchy bacon that has been Guerilla Glue(d) to cheesecloth. Various grits will be achieved based on size, temperature and duration of crisping the bacon. Purists of this technique cry at the “baconstardation” of those fucking bastards who do not cook the bacon naked. Camel noises are tribal, and various tones of them will denote if you should fear the faux cheese hump, or embrace it for the culture it contains. Creamy, dreamy culture.
  16. Princess Crown; good for either sex, this Crown can be pre-made and snap-deep fried, or can be baked around a mound made from tinfoil. Using various body parts of your self, or a 2nd knowing/unknowing party is ok, but make sure if you are moving beyond 1st person planning or involvement you have consent or a well soaked cloth from various dollar store solvents. Some say adding a pea under the mattress, pillow or cushion may add that extra royal diversion/dalliance.
  17. Pork Monk (Nun); a gown is prepared and dried in a constructed and blessed hut in the back yard. It is custom shaped, and although there are moments of elation, no official Rosary-gyrations are initiated until the first appearance of the full garb worn, usually on the first whole moon following the addition of the tassels. Often, this can be a swingers festival of sorts, and many different Monks and Nuns become possessed by the bacon, not inventing so much as incantationing some delicious uses for bacon few dare to examine. Some “nuns” enjoy crosses of sorts, and then send those off into the web, never sure where they end up – but the sweet, sweet details.
  18. Bacon Generals; one of my personal favorites because it allows me to pretend I worked for the NSA. Pre-record a series of direct commands that sound like you are in control of a series of flying documents that surround your current space, or the Air Tower Common Objective Control Zone (ARCOCZ). While showing a line up of bacon your Internet browser history, shout at them. As each begins to glaze over from your rage, insist they suck and should have found out more about Snowden before he left the Teflon coated fence perimeter.
  19. Bacon Keller; easy to say, hard to do. While desperately thumbing through a phone book, eyes covered in bacon and angrily stroking it, screaming – “Why did I have be born with the Keller-Bacon gene?”
  20. Da Tube; depending on experience, paper towel tubes can be used but you are cautioned to begin with toilet paper tubes. In a pair of black business socks, pulled to no lower than at least knee-cap, see how much bacon you can shove into the “cardboard” subway/tram along with your unit. In the case of orifice insertion, add some garlic and see how long you can “ride that tube” before dropping into a pre-greased muffin tin. Scoop pre-mixed okra/raisin muffin mix and clean up. Get to the recreation lounge before the opening Vanna wave. Remember the margarine and plastic knife for the TV tray in order to not miss vowel purchase tension as you hear their compliments. Fools.
  21. Sybian Pancetta; for the Robb Report masturbation aficionado, there can be very few holy pounds, and this custom machine not only has stainless steel tenderloin pans, pine tree/metallic/green/with round head bolt-screw things stained with eggnog, and variable convection wave prongs, but when flown to Spain in first class, and then transported as the only passenger in a Lamborghini driven by the sex of your choice, over 80% of purchases at this stage involve discrete interactions with the most famous drivers, Mario and Luigi. No coincidence, they have the same cocksmith as Ron Jeremy and Ron Burgundy. Ride at the tempo and duration of your choice.
  22. KBCO; Keep Boffin’, Chives On. Best timed with favorite posts on various Fuck-I-Wish-I-Was-21-Again websites, and various dairy product sales. Fresh chive/ettes are always preferred, but freeze dried, collagen infused or silicon injected/molded versions can be used for the lamer, or more remote followers of this cult like fascination.
  23. The Love Boat; a tribute to Isaac, the first globally loved, black, cruise bartender. Using black Secret pantyhose, thread the barbed end of the prepared curled bacon into the pre-shaped headpiece, create a glorious wig/fro and practice that wink. The same approach can be used for the more traditional crackers on the show, Julie, Doc and Captain Stabbing but with less glowing of soul.
  24. Bacon Receptionist; you can call the office, or the garage what you want – fuck, be an accountant for all I care. The essence of this is about making sure the Receptionist is dressed in the sweetest outfit you fetish for, and is made entirely of bacon. Various cuts, smoked varieties and even food color can make for the most surreal pork piñata you have left some extra spice in. Ability to handle dictation, or muffcrophone checks is a solid option.
  25. Baconboarding; a little bit of double on this one, and two groups posted the same word on the same day, at the same time, in what is argued to be the Prime Meridian Clock Adjustment case of the year. The first group insisted that is mimics the military style of abuse, and bacon that has been liquefied into contents that appear to have the texture of the stuff those girls had in the cup. Breathing becomes hard, and there is an aspect of hurried hope to climax at the right time, often the most riskier of the two, as it may involve a more immediate risk of death, or a desire to attend weekend porcelain doll festivals. Porkpaddles Inc, was incorporated on the day in question, and at the moment of releasing their entire online catalogue of bacon cured fetish paddles (*the Beavermelter, Brokeback Mount’em or Ojumba’s Big Saddam have become the top sellers) were greeted by a very odd Google result. The dispute remains open, but they agree to the Atlantic and Pacific Accord, a convention that allows Ocean’s to flow to their own pace.
  26. Crazy G. Lou; ‘Crazy’ Georgie Loukanikopoulos, CGL for short, was a big fan of John Belushi, known chronic masturbator in his father’s fleet of ice cream trucks, and even ended up having a move he was famous for being caught in, named after him. Lining the canal of a foe’s stolen sheep, or lamb, with convection oven moisture, he would sit back with a bacon/tinfoil hat on his head, singing old Greek village tales of lost loves, and lonely nights. To imagine how difficult this was, most normal sized males would have to strap on the equivalent of 32 lbs. of bacon.
  27. Puttin’ on da Bacon; squeezing into your old hockey uniforms, staring at old trophies and pucks from past glories, insert the Queen “We Are the Champions” cassette. Staring at your Slapshot poster, take on the roll of one of the players, or the coach, and proceed to strap bacon to your knuckles forming a CCM glove receptacle worthy of a Dr. Pepper and some late night sparks.
  28. Pin the Bacon on the Donkey; as easy as it sounds, just like the old birthday game we all remember, but this involves drawn shades, the bottom end of an old school cotton broom head with “x” amount of inches (*based on comfort, and desire for various textures) for inserting the mock tail, and then using bacon and as many clothes pins or hemming pins you are comfortable with using on the number of pieces you want to pin to yourself. In either, one of the two hands is going to be feeling like it is not yours, trust me.
  29. Mykonos Blunt; good for either, or any sides of the fence – a favorite for many hermaphrodites. Using a fine quality rolling paper (rice, hemp, bamboo) layer oregano, kush and bacon around the core of the “meat blunt”. Using suspender dental floss tied around the nipples if needed, load that smoke-ready rocket and pretend you are Survivorwo/man looking to make friction the heart and soul of your “OPA!”
  30. Beach Bacon Blanket; it is about rubbing that bacon blanket over the frosted glaze you placed on that beach of pubis. L’Oreal or Just for Men, frost to Annette or Frankie, but avoid the Brylcreem it can create a fungal infection. Women employing this technique on a beach have been reported to have cultivated pearls in various vaginal crevices, while men who have reported sensations similar to tooth sensitivity, but for the helmet of their unit.
  31. NASA Bacon; lay out the strips of bacon around the room of your choice, and light accordingly. Try to emulate the moon as close as you can, digital technology is more advanced than in 1969. Gluing multiple smart-phone boxes to the bottom of flip-flops in advance, with small tacks inserted to keep hold of the wax paper boot straps, which connect to an entire titanium* (*Reynold’s tinfoil, or a generic rip off you have pretended to smelt during episodes of any post-dinner time game show of choice) space suit. You can customize the suit with any stickers, or special prizes from the bottom of cereal boxes, even play some music. Care should be used with any of the Star Wars, Star Trek or Space Odyssey sound tracks.

Go on, hover over each day.

Just another small playlist of delights, sounds and small gigs.

Right?

*abide*

By

Stailing the open seize.

Digits flailing softly reminding us. Lest we forget. This is chum. Tower over it. Pulse.

Digits flailing softly reminding us. Lest we forget. This is chum. Tower over it. Pulse.

Stay lifted on life.
“The right one never comes off.”

Seeing it, embracing it.
Skin sailing on wind.

Bone stails.

Waves become whores wishing to drown
with you by the boundless sea.
Hide your gin, hydrogen.

Flesh gulls begin to peck at your cheek,
neck gristle shines.
Salted air.

Rotunda knuckles crash to the misted sheets.
Wood, resisting flesh.

Chalk, filaments and fibres melt in the heat.
Jaws cracking calcium peanuts.
Divine peanuts.
Banged big peanuts.

Oral peanuts.
Chomp the big heels of life.

Those stilettos will prevent your tongue.
It wishes to sail.
Expose your inner genius.

Have faith.
Few have the ability to do it.

To fully understand how to wield it.
The bone stail.

Hold it firmly.
Place your tongue on the table.
Drop the blunt.
Stail.
Repeat into the tool as part of the whole.

Remove guts after the seizure has stopped.

Fluids are always.
Looking.
Particles – to float, indeed.
Grasping.
Solid just stands.

Over the mess of chum.
Not possible.

It must be in the chum.
The chum must want sum.

But stand, and count.

Then let us dance.
Icarus is here tonight.
One night only.
It is a hot show.
Cannibals and witches,
stand up Stantastic’s,
genital mollusks, Zeiss flies.
Snowflake moths.

Look at the guts.
Make yourself happier, feel the prick.
The sting.
The leather whip tail of a radish,
bound and sutured to the sights you see.
Feel, read.
Up and ebbed, flown over a nest.

Shame they always think of cuckoo nests.
In that highway, that trove of concrete.

The books must be dry when we quote them.

That is what they want, so give in.

Painted the walls with olives,
my cave.
Gorgeous dolmadaglite.
Heavy as fuck.
Shiny, clean.
Scratch my back on that point there.
See?
On this boat.
In the open seize.

Just you and me.
Where do you want to install your stail?
Quick, they are coming.

“Can we sail?”

I was hoping you would never ask.
I just don’t know.
We can try.

Poetry walked the moon first.

*abide*

By

Andagram.

Kerouac said, “Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion.” Although likely a great remix of thought from the past, his ability to bring it forward in a real way impacted many roads, for many miles, and many more to come. Truth is, he was smirking, and remains so in his grave, knowing of those who wish to start their own trend or fad, or be part of another one under another name for the sake of fame and glory, and some kind of worldly need. To be part of a machine, known or not – as oppressed as it sounds, I wonder if Animal Farm would agree?

Orwell argued, in his fantastic treatise that great things would only be accomplished through trends, and fads and fabrics that united the causes. Was he suggesting that this was contrary to what we believe as individuals is what make our jobs, and our pens whole, but in reality, we graze on the meadows of houndstooth walls and metallic lumber implanted with copper veins? Is the juice, that precious juice that travels with the nutrients fed back to the leaves that fall in the forest, and if so, does the NSA hear when they fall? Will my voice be heard, in the roar of all those united to occupy the malcontent of the minds and the masses before the Happy Hour at the ATM? Quick, trade the shirt for libations of conformity, but knock thrice – you won’t get in without the hair on the chin, unless o’er da ‘air a doig, um.

Syntax is supposed to be about pleasing another, and not the fury of your own mind. Correct it, move on. Enjoy, life is short. Of course, learn how long that life is based on the need to approve. They approve grammar now also, in most cases, unknowingly to lead the recipient to believe that logic can be induced from a non-comatose state, or a walking parish state. Prey.

Trust sharpened to the edge of a taint sickle. There once was a day I had more trust for the world that lay behind these screens, now filled with just another killer of time, with stars and search histories that will dictate what your divorce proceedings will look like. Fear not, divorces are like bad knees. We all get them, just in some cases, later or in different parts of our bodies. This is what age does, or creates. Like money and rust, it too never sleeps. I prefer time of the three but that is not something we can cook in a stew and sit around some Yorkshire pudding speaking of the great days your facade was not well masked, but few can know that. Keep me on the outside, I will only promise to look in when it is time for the knod. You will know. The tap will be faint, but the cards will not fade. They have been aware of the night as long as the days alchemy. Brother. Such a taint sickle.

Africa. The land of the madness, some kind of wild frontier. A land, where people have little of anything, and are grateful for it. I have a sense of calling there, perhaps as a final wish, it will be there I give myself over to helping in the only way that may seem just for a person who is of the cut I am. The line has taken a different angle, and the light dances in a new way, so I remain in a place to allow my hands to be but tools of a greater, selfless calling. Philanthropy does not require a black tie, or a tiny cocktail that has evaporated water. The water would have been consumed before it was given a chance to boil.

Nourishment. A small cafe you had to walk into hoping for the hamburger, or the fine salad. Looking to be able to satisfy the craving for the quick meal, something to pay over hunger with until the paving company came in to make it a more permanent mental decision. Then it becomes autonomous, like the lies. The proliferation of the manifestations that seem the entire dress together. Gown on a clown, send ’em in. We got to the show on the road. The left stage will enter first tonight, we have a Guyanese diplomat in the front row with a row of dates hoping he smiles at one of them. A diamond crusted box of McNugget’s is available for the winner, and she can choose whatever sauce of her fancy. The condition is easy. Sip or drip from the right box or straw, or keep your mind and remain a pauper in excise.

Tried, tested and laid to rest. Yes, I like that. It allows me the ability to sit like a modern Platonion. Layers peeling back the ability for you understand the context, the whole story, as I profess to but I have the right boards and can cast the magic spells with the cats, and the scammers and the delights. Yes, listen closely, or don’t listen and then come here one day, and see the “code” was just writing on the wall. The book. That is the tell all. That is where the real magic happens. It goes without saying, I have to thank all of those that have participated so far. The story is shaping up as nicely as the other houses, I just think my cards are little bit thicker, and I am well aware of math and origami. May I have the last brownie?

I really wonder what Umbrellahead is doing right now. Gus grabbed ’em. Fuck.

Nutella they said. It would stop the sun. You could blend in, look like a tourist that had moved there 17 years ago at least, trying to adopt to the island ways. It sounded like a good idea, and having read the book Black Like Me in grade 3, in French. Strangest part of the French classes were the curry smelling recorders we had to play. They floated in front of the curtain and you had to grab them quick, there was only one usually though. If more came they tended to taste and smell like socks. Odd. I was never good at the recorder. Hated it. Like having to put the Nutella back on every 5 minutes AND it has sand in it. Unless you are rich. I guess.

Oblectation. The enjoyment, the pleasure that came – was it worth it? Walk with a smirk. Bread. Wine. Fish fingers. Hear the lamentations of your weak geometry calculations before me. Clutch in. Grin. This is the path you take along the route of the festering cobblestone to profess a romantic love for the scratching, the plague and the dire times that seem so much better. Filled with the romance and flooded ways of the canals that are to bring the professed oars that break glass. Hydrogen twice, oxygen nice but puppy dog tails are not meant to be for amusement of spoiled or unattended domesticated apes.

*abide*

By

Umbrellahead.

The reason it is so big, is not just the contents. I think it has something to do with keeping the rain off the shoulders, I don’t like rain on the shoulders. Feels the coldest of all the places that rain settles, the wind just brushes it a certain way there. Makes it more bitter, harsh – but that did not matter.

I have an umbrella head, and I am not talking about a head like a big one, or a round one. I mean a head, that was actually stretched into looking like a hammerhead shark tried to come out the vajayjay and got caught on some sixties untrimmed bush, creating this bone like frame similar to that of the inside of an umbrella, and it was to that my skin and brain formed in the baby years.

My name is Umbrellahead.

Hard to grasp, but just imagine an umbrella that is over your head, but it is not over really, it starts right at the top crown of my abdullus camelgotta. The good news, it is not convex to the body, but concave. I came out head first, got that to be thankful for.

I won’t bore you with all of the details that became challenges in life. Early in it, pretty much called cute. It was a novelty, and it was amazing. I was special, and loved it. The kids always picked me first for soccer and baseball teams knowing I could keep them dry in the field if they ran under my head. Wind was not a problem in those days.

As other people waited for the rain to stop, I happily stood beside the BBQ, eating the hot dogs innocently with the chosen few to stand around under the “halo”. We would laugh, and laugh.

Of course, this began to change more as I got older. The cruel comments started in grade 6 to be exact. I commented on Becky’s Road Runner jeans, and she said the first mean thing to me that day. I never really understood it. I knew it made me feel bad, but why?

“If your second head looks anyone near as fuqtarded as that umbrella one you are never getting laid Umbrellahead.”

The words still ring in my head. Did she mean my umbrella head was my second head, and the first one made me ugly enough that no girl would ever let me touch, let alone get into those Road Runner jeans? Was there some kind of hidden meaning here? Was she talking about the head of the magic souvlaki that I was gifted with? No, that was shaped like the smile of an angel. Odd, very odd.

I am sure most of us know the coming of age for a young boy will start in and around grade 6. This is the time that he begins to discover the sexy raincoats in the JC Penny catalogue, or those patterned umbrellas from the L.L Bean booklet they always mail you for the shitter. Best place to bloke stroke as a young umbrella headed person, and it never dawned on me until that fateful day, that perhaps I was different.

That was all it took.

One hot, Road Runner jeans wearin’ buttertart.

My confidence was shaken and the world was about to come crashing down.

The next dozen plus years were like stubby bottles and bacon grease. Drink the bottle, fill it with the pork bellies drippings that no one wanted previously, but now were declared delicious by the machine – it had to drip somewhere, and the lowest common denominator may as well make something happen with it as the gruel of life was to be both tolerated and celebrated.

People would throw things at me, and stare. I would be ignored, or pushed out of line. I was told I had to move, or be thrown into the recycle bin cause no one loves a deformed umbrella.

Harsh.

It did not matter that I had a heart, or was a man that simply had an umbrella head but could lift eight times his body weight. Spoken word, math or agricultural discussions flowed like the Pacific shaking hands with the Atlantic – but it did not matter. Polite to a fault, wanting to make sure all could sit, or the door was open, or the line up was not an issue, please go ahead – but it did not matter. A great CSR, with a penchant for solving any problem, with no additional costs, manipulation, lies, malcontent, malodorous management mantras or the like – nope, not a fuckin’ matter.

He would still be mocked and taunted. Pushed and pulled to move away from someone quickly before they ‘called the police, or whatever we call to deal with your kind’ – life, it seemed had changed for me.

The only time, and I mean the only time people were nice to me was during rain storms or rainy days, the bad windy and snowy ones, or even on the odd scorching hot day when there was no shade to be found anywhere. Of course, it would be my pleasure to allow the top of my umbrella head to get sunburnt in order to make sure yours does not. I want to stay out here and do this, so you can take an iPhone pic of me on the corner of Queen/Yonge with 13 people huddled under me after you have left my comfort to find your home in the wet masses going home to loved ones. I want to get on that trolley, but by the holy laws of Zeus, no need to push these folks away.

I have no loved ones, and may as well feel good and get the smiles and best wishes now.

Assumption: this was going to be the way that my life was going to change from being a fun loving child, to a utilitarian tool that would be there to be used as required, and then tossed aside. Never cleaned, or cared for. Never held with a pride and an esteem that my great-great-uncle in London was. He had been born with a walking stick as an arm, it accompanied a wonderful gentleman around Essex County and the surrounding woods everywhere. Bringing adoration and prestige.

Not me.

I had to be born into this day and age. The one where Fonzi had ruined what was traditionally cool, and artists like Mickey Avalon spoke about “their dicks” like it was some kind of custom, orthotic rubber shoe cover.

My life as a man with an umbrella head had turned into a nightmare. I had no choice, and even went to the doctor so I could see what she could give me. She said son, son you have gone to far, been smoking and trippin’ – betchya there are fairies that you have seen also? Yes, I said, a fairy with boots dancing with a dwarf. She gave me some Celexa. I will never forget the day.

It was the Sabbath. It was black.

Everything changed after that. I just went into drone mode. I allowed people to snap pictures of them with me, laughing outside but crying inside. Sometimes I would make elephant man noises, and speak of not being an inanimate. No one heard over the clicking of the lens or the laughter. I got into the groove of feeling what my shoulders would be like at the end of the day, having to turn this way and that to go through doors or try to use the bathroom stall. Do you know how hard it is to have to hold yourself up with two arms on the stall walls and then Turkish hover shit into the bowl a few feet below? Sure precision on the bowl is important, but if those legs start to swing or the shoes get in the way, I got some cleaning up to do later.

*sidenote – bullshit more people don’t have handicap stalls, but the fucked up thing about those is the toilet is right beside a wall and I still have to contort to the left or the right, and sometimes the tip of the umbrella touches the floor and I have to go home and use the acid-infused shower to rinse the disgusting juices of bathroom floors off.

Life was miserable, but it was the only one I had. Sitcoms, social networks and soda. My health did not matter. Even with muscular arms, a gymnasts body and chiseled set of legs, I was still an outcast. I had tried running at several points in my life, but wind gusts prevented any effective training and in fact caused some serious neck injuries that one time along the Scarborough Bluffs when that wild brine tsunami came unannounced.

I lay in bed for weeks after that resting. I don’t call it sleep, because the position and the discomfort is as close to Hell as can be imagined.

I did not even think about the word love. It was just a fantasy concept. I liked a lot of things, found joy and relief in being able to hide in some of them, but I did not know of this place in my life. No family, no friends – this shadow of a person walking the streets the way to the specially adapted cubicle, with the specially adapted ear piece, taking calls, making sure customers were always treated with dignity.

No one could “see” Umbrellahead here. They could just feel his words. He never confused people, he was very clear. Easy to use, and functional – his intellectual fabric protecting the customer, even from some of the same internal assholes who resented his 106% Satisfaction Rating, which for the record is possible is you take the 6% of the calls he resolved for his “peers” and add them to his own 100% rating.

The day that I met her, it all changed. It was as if the thunderbolt had struck me, and I had never heard such a happy person in my life. She had called to make sure to thank us for providing an adaptive kit she had been looking for all of her life, it changed her life – and my gratitude in reply was kind and real.

I had helped improve that kit based on my umbrella condition, and I was so pleased that it allowed her to see life in a new light. She told me, and I will never forget those words, the man that understood the need for this in the world, was the man that would have her heart. I pursed my lips, and my pulse grew like the cocks of the stallion steeds returning from the battles of Alexander the Great to see the fields of mares with trays of cheeses, dolmades and ouzo. I could not tell her I was that man, that would not be right. My heart sang, for the first time since being an innocent child.

I spent the entire shift on the phone with her, Ms. B. U. Stand. She was fabulous and by the end of the call, I was just calling her Stand. It was an odd name, but she was endeared to it. Said many times, it was just fate that had things happen for certain reasons, and she was happy with hers. Although never married and alone, she was educated, had a wonderful farm estate she had adapted into a pleasant place to greet company and share baked goods with the bed & breakfast guests, she said she had “hopes to put in a small Canadian shield amphitheater so she could host special events for special people and their friends.”

She helped people who were special, or with challenges, find the beauty in who they were. She asked me at the end of the call if I would be interested in meeting for a tea, she had to come down the street from the office the next day, and I would be able to receive her drawings, related to possibly enhancing the quality of life of others who may need the device, and she felt it was her duty to do that as quickly as possible. Making the world a better place was important for her, would I be so kind?

If it had not been for the fact both of them felt something over the phone that day, combined with her incredible intelligence and foresight to be able to predict that he would never break a professional code to have a tea with a customer, let alone risk being seen and rebuked. The one time he had tried this, all the change she had been counting as she waited for his arrival was thrown right at his umbrella, one of the dimes had an evil ridge, it left a permanent scar. Still sees it to this day. He smiles today though.

If we can make one less person suffer, let’s do this.

Lunch the next day was a good time, and Umbrellahead would still have to eat, so he suggested 12:30 and he would treat with the tea. It was best it stayed in his hands and the tray, that shit is hot if thrown. Lessons learned. *sigh* She was going to be wearing orange, their favorite color.

Umbrellahead came from the back, it was the best way to approach for him, and in this case, it was fate. What he saw, expecting to see Stand in orange, was anything but a regular stand.

She was beautiful. Her shape was like no other one he had ever seen, and to some it may have been contrived as even over weight, gaudy. Un-natural even. Horrible, ignorant people would say this. Real men, true gentle, kind, loving, magical men would not care about such a dalliance of thought, they would be so struck by the unique and beautiful nature of who she was, and what she held in such high regard.

She had an umbrella stand on her back.
Back U. Stand.

My head was spinning.
It was making sense now, her name.
The u.

A large, ornate, flesh covered umbrella stand. In it were several orange umbrellas, each with a small orange heart shaped piece of paper that said “Be kind, share the orange.” They were beautiful, and somehow would be hidden from the front. Her hair, this beautiful Natalie Wood/Brigitte Bardot creation was flowing in the back and also worked well with her choice of outfit.

I was about to turn, and run – I had on some Dockers, and an orange plaid shirt. I thought it would be funny to wear orange socks and my flip-flops, cause dressing a little like a clown might disarm most, and one of the creamers fell off the tray. She turned gently, and our eyes met.

I never went back to work.

I moved out of my apartment 2 weeks later.

My umbrella head helped keep the sun and rain off the back for 2 summers.

Igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic all created one beautiful blend.

The people in our lives are beautiful people.
Unique, smart, funny, loving – people.

The happiest day in our lives, was when we found out we were pregnant. It took several months for the doctors to confirm, but I am happy to announce, we are expecting twins. Sometime in the fall, 2014. Two peas in her pod, but momma umbrella stand is doing well and we remain blessed for all the magic in our lives.

Umbrellahead, Back and our two peas.

Please say hello to us after the show, the matinee is the best one to bring the kids along for pictures and autographs, the evening shows can get a bit more cheeky when we include our special guests, Clothesline Arms and Jackhammer Dick.

Fuck, life is a trip eh.

*abide*

By

12:24 *active

AWI – mission engaged.

“In the name of The Gathering…”

Never was about how thick

Never was about how thick Todd was, it always appeared as though he was able to take it. Sure, he got angry, and was eccentric, reclusive – but he was happy when he wrote, when he told tales of the Fan, or the Clauses, the windows. To that smell of all that is alive, regardless of the season, the reason or the treason. Act according to self, the dice merely are advisors of restricted mind.

Almost past Angry, comes right after a bullshit cousin, Depression – you know, Depression is the weak one, Anger comes along and tells him to fuck off pretty quick. Then the sequence of events for a ‘real man’ is the arrival of the next one, this one a brother – Motivation comes and smokes a doobie with Anger, and he chills out and turns into his alter ego – Inspiration.

What is messed up, is that some people have that family and relationship thing all wrong. They are not ones that have chosen Depression, they lived through a life with it as a brother, or sister…this is a shame.

The choice, is now their own, and they are either going to break away from the curses of the heritage, or they are going to finally break free and choose to turn those things into distant memories of a family life gone bad, or the misfortune of fate on their professional lives, or the lacking of a true love – yes, all challenges, and all things we have all come to face at one point in time or another, and often in pairs, if not in random chains of connection that further fragment the epicenter of our lives.

No, one is to rise to the challenge of the day ahead, and has to bear witness to the misery of a dark night, or worse yet, an eternity of them strung together in the minutes that ticked by without you being near ‘her’, or ‘loved’, or able to make that million ‘dollars’.

Fuck it.

What the hell are we waiting for? Some kind of meteorite shower of solar system minerals smashed together like a plunger of rock and shit?

Nope. Not anymore, the time is now, and the day is today.

We all know this, and then struggle to get free from the bonds of the social stigma that accompanies these gyrations of fate, but some of us, no longer want to bear the cross of this chant uttered by the masses at their pews of disdain, and harsh, bitter bite from the poisoned tinge of another apple that was infected with cubicalitus sporeboredomii, a rancid parasite of global proportion, so much so, it has become what the everyman seeks…or so some say…

There is good healing and rejuvenation in the spirit and in the mind, when one is able to harvest from these fields of desperation, the seeds of tomorrow. Wild abandon be gone, these seeds are being planted again, and I am going to make that a field to believe in. I am going to have to get through some mud to do that, but I am going to do it.

I just don’t know when.

I do know how, but somehow, the sum is not the same.
Silly.

I know.
But then again, so do you.

So I am making this call to action a loud one, and a definitive one.

101012N – The Gathering

*abide*

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

Abide is not passive.

a·bide [uh-bahyd], a·bode or a·bid·ed, a·bid·ing.

verb (used without object)
1. to remain; continue; stay: Abide with me.
2. to have one’s abode; dwell; reside: to abide in a small Scottish village.
3. to continue in a particular condition, attitude, relationship, etc.; last.

verb (used with object)
4. to put up with; tolerate; stand: I can’t abide dishonesty!
5. to endure, sustain, or withstand without yielding or submitting: to abide a vigorous onslaught.
6. to wait for; await: to abide the coming of the Lord.
7. to accept without opposition or question: to abide the verdict of the judges.
8. to pay the price or penalty of; suffer for.

Verb phrases
9. abide by,
     a. to act in accord with.
     b. to submit to; agree to: to abide by the court’s decision.
     c. to remain steadfast or faithful to; keep: If you make a promise, abide by it.

Origin:
before 1000; Middle English abiden, Old English ābīdan; cognate with Old High German irbītan await, Gothic usbeisns expectation, patience.

Related forms
a·bid·er, noun

Synonyms
1. tarry. 2. live. 3. persevere, endure. 4. bear, endure, brook; support.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, 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.”

Citizenship in a Republic, Theodore Roosevelt

Think about it. Then don’t try.

When you do, I’ll be around.

Will you?

*abide*

By

Goats don’t like Feta.

I came back from an appointment, none of any one particular business, but of many – not yours. Suffice it to say, I was in the orange and digging the gig.

It was the subway.

I know, what a piece of shit. Such a lowlife, I had to use the public transit system. Please, focus more on the word ‘has’ and the context you want to insert, for I have not inferred anything but the utterance of it…oh…wait…you have to assume, from the appearance of the clothes and my choice of public I am a common man.

A working man.

Usually on a discrete seat, with my ass hanging off of it – smiling, or with a tear in my eye because I am watching “Doubt Me” on this machine that let’s me see things, and create things sometimes.

She looks at me, and sees the tear.

I can not watch the video, and not cry.

This is true, as it is factus lebowskius that strong men also cry, twice. After periods. Real men, have to have 3 periods before they cry, but let’s not go there – sure, you consider me a pussy for your own story. Fuck you for judging it. You don’t know why – figure out your own reason. Real men also cry.

Her eyebrows cross – they knit into a small pattern and I go sit beside her. She has had a bad day, I am not too sure why, nor do I care. She has not asked me for anything, other than some kind of recognition of answering her human concern of why, transmitted in a code that goes back to caves and fire.

I say no words, I don’t want to.

I smile, obviously my goat has her disarmed. On occasion, lamb, but as of late goat.

Sitting on her left, I give her my left ear bud to a set of Bose earphones. She has no idea they are Bose, not that it will do anything for her greater than to allow her to listen to the soundtrack, and I ask her if she doubts me.

There is not a word that is exchanged, and she watches. Reads, her eyes will dart to me when she thinks she can breath between the music, and.

She does not.

Her tear proves it, as does her email. Her name is Janet, and she is a wonderful lady in a wonderful world.

If you look closely at the video, you will see her.

She is one of the grains of sand.

As am I.

As are you.

Believe.

You got the magic, and if anyone ever doubts it – even me – you make sure you stand motherfucking tall, sip back the shot of fucking right, and nail the motherfucking goat with some cosmic energy.

*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*