One that I am grateful for having lived, in fact, there is more to that “statement” than meets the naked eye; fawn too a meadow of imagined vines climbing towards the love of frothy hope. Gates to a heaven, taxed with sins.
Heaven is spelt with a silent capital U.
Think about it.
Upon a wooded row, there stood a small insect that appeared. It asking for directions on how to reach the road he asked for. He would not accept my answer, nor the call to my trusted best friend over and over again.
Funny how so many fools suffer the Websters-WebMD Fuqtard misconception that Abide is a passive state, simply.
Fondue logic dripping down the spine, usually is a bad sign about the quality of the company you keep.
Feel your spine.
Do not move, no scratching.
Now close your eyes.
Yes, if I was asked to, but my truest love and companion would be there in all of the trillions of seconds I sense she is, and yes.
Yes, I would.
Wood, you…will do, and I am grateful for you. I have walked across a plane fertilized, stones committing to Semedori and trees remain grateful for the glancing winds of antique trails. Time, the tyrant who is mute, ability surrendered by a will Kings of Kings profess, serpents to the works that all fall, never as mighty as a despair. (*oz link)
Visage, voyage, voussoir castings left for those still eager to find a meaning litter the sacred corners of the cortex and dolomite steeples.
Strike for a match,
strike for a game.
Strike for the rights,
professed by the sane.
Sure, you provide the back, I will strike the purple tip, cuticle of a circumcision reefed with sulfur. The deeper the lick, the deeper the depth of each vertebrae lodged.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
In modern times, Mea Culpa has become a noble declaration of admitting, accepting the making of a mistake by one’s own actions, and decisive “fault”, which is formed when diligence is disregarded, and harms way is considered a proper risk for the reward of the actions. Interestingly enough, the word culpa in latin is “fault”, and mea is “my/mine”.
We live in a world of syntax, so let’s shorten it all. Keep it real, eh?
And, is simply n.
You n me, them n us, m n m’s.
Mea, or my and n. Mean.
Me an Fault?
Could Fate be Fault under duress?
So the choices we make, or as Gus claims, mean culpa– creates a poetic tragedy of sorts.
“Observation fully confirms what reflection teaches us on this subject: Savage man and civilized man differ so much in their inmost heart and inclinations that what constitutes the supreme happiness of the one would reduce the other to despair. The first breathes nothing but repose and freedom, he wants only to live and remain idle, and even the Stoic’s ataraxia does not approximate his profound indifference to everything else. By contrast, the Citizen, forever active, sweats and scurries, constantly in search of ever more strenuous occupations: he works to the death, even rushes toward it in order to be in a position to live, or renounces life in order to acquire immortality. He courts the great whom he hates, and the rich whom he despises; he spares nothing to attain the honor of serving them; he vaingloriously boasts of his baseness and of their protection and, proud of his slavery, he speaks contemptuously of those who have not the honor of sharing it.” Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on Inequality
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.
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…
Hard to believe.
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?
*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.
“Something is happening. Not really being heard, just passing through. As we all do, each and every moment.”
Please, allow me.
[pulls chair, beckons, a lovely smirk filled with loving, tender embraces]
Prepared for you, these bowls. A fine selection of dareneedling herbs. Our tea’s are not bagged. They are here for your pleasure, do stay a while. Total viewing time of the clips below, 00:08:10. It is meant to be an orderly experience after all, kind of like, determining if you are experienced in the lost art of understanding, awareness, discretion – shall I continue, or would you care to…*cough, cough*…consider some fictionus feta verite?
This has been one large work in progress, and regardless of the "grand scheme of things", or what many think of it, I could only wish another as much happiness as I have found in just some of my life.
Are you foolish to have read into that, thus - he must be floating basket of delight, just so happy? Sure thing sunshine.
It's a magic carpet ride, and don't let anyone else tell you otherwise.
They only walk.
There is no bullshit, or any crap attached to this reference, it is one of the best tools I have ever seen put to use by intelligent people to increase returns on their real estate investment strategies and actions. It was developed by one of my truest brothers, a genuine monk, and inspiration in his many ways. I take a bullet for this bro, and I would take one, if you apply this tool to your actions, and fail because of it.
*Fetaman.com supports HostGator, and if you want top tier, best of class people and technical support, this team is all about it. One of the best experiences I have ever had on-line. Not asking for donations, if you find value in the option, have an interest, and are going to sign-up or get your site going, do it with these links at least.
Big birds, kind of bringing bundles of joy and happiness from the fog of the Gulch. Do you think you want to know more about what the fat lady really sang under her breath, as she wondered and wandered away?
Come hence, and embrace the orange grass...the orange skies...life is orange man, it is any colour you want it to be.
Never asking for funds, always passing out wealth, health and happiness...is the Twitter bird a stork? Could it bring bundles of joy, and happiness and even *gasp* entertainment?
It is, and was not easy to build a base. The use of effective tools for anyone interested in building anything, from interactions to a brand, a product or a service - TweetAdder 4.0 is now an officially approved Twitter application, and I am happy to discuss.
Click the link below, try out the program for free - and then keep it or not.
Amazing how much faith folks have in who they are, and what they do when they offer that kind of abide.
Diversions and random relevance;
Sure, you might have some curiosity, and maybe interested in some of the things I have tip toed, two lipped like, through the tulips with some of these, and hey, made the cut to get to the site, so tickle the soles, have a look. Functionality can be amusing, and rewarding.