fetaman.com

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

By

Wince saws.

There has been a change in governing.

No shit Einstein.

It has to change, since the foundation of it in the roots of democracy it has always changed. It has to, as a living and breathing thing, it will change. It can not remain static, for to be so would be death alone.

Mention concrete here, and stone. I would love to smirk and just look in gap eyed wonder, and maybe point to or circle the word living again. I get tired of doing this in life, and I am not going to be doing it virtually all the time, sure you can call me an asshole for actually understanding what I am smirking about – but I don’t judge the quality of my life by such measures.

Seriously.

I judge this by the quality of the living I am participating in, or not. This includes the nations and the culture of participation within those collections of people and intellects of varying degrees.

I consider myself gifted, so what?

I also consider myself an idiot, a fuqtard by choice in various propensities.

Confusing?

Not at all, if you can dig that there is no black and white.

But sure, you go ahead and take a look at this – tell me, is it black or white? Can it be summarized in a 140 tweet, and then passed on to provide a clear and absolute reflection of an ideology? Is it right to sit back and laugh at an entire nation as powerful as the USA, and claim all the problems can be solved if only they listened to the “people”?

The machine is real. It can not be stopped, it can be merely be mitigated.

Yes, the levers pulled behind the curtain by the small wizards, the one that has Dorothy so intimidated has been exposed.

However Dorothy is much more advanced in her ways also.

So they just sit there, in this cold stare.

Waiting for something, someone to help them.

This is where the director comes in. Some of the stage hands flutter by, or an arm appears in the window that is showing us the full glory of the moon. Truman is having a coffee break, and the world decides it is time to change the laundry over and grab an Oreo.

All the world is a stave, and music is playing.

The tone of it, and where you listen will both reflect what you hear.

How you interpret it will always be a function of the quality of you.

Not me, I am too busy studying the effects of Zoloft economics and Prozac politics.

I have always been fascinated by the invisible brown acid, and as far as strange trips go following the logic along the path of the below illustration, wonderfully defined for a sober second thought provision afforded by those of us that know we can’t change the world, but we sure to fuck can change the station to the shit they are telling us to listen to.

The information rainbow holds so much more than just pots of gold.

There are pots of many kind.

Some even have orange grass.

iFeta

Sometimes, you can feel the cold chill of the blades. Different shapes, and with different hammers that hold force for longer than most men breath in a lifetime. Then they release, and move to another foundation. Quarry for a query, a calm for the blink that you wish you could get back. Those tasks are not meaningless. You will forever be part of the concrete. Fabric of the masses, such pride.

*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

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

Fly when there is sun.

  • 100,003 @ 5:32 p.m *genuine humble bow is observed
  • 2oo posts
  • 12 pages, *some selections still private and exclusive*
  • 21 categories
  • 1,028 tags
  • 1000+ embedded links, laterals, tangents,”hints” and “blades of orange grass”
  • 2500+ hours of development and effort, media, iFeta, FetaChops and general brinesanity

Long hard road, with a hell of a lot of what some would refer to as old fashioned effort. The site over 14 months has managed to get to 100,000 impressions and hits.

No bullshit, despite the haters and the bots that look for scams and weak points.

It is all right here.

Regardless of my great boasts, and braggadocio* flare (*remember a small tribute once in a while to the cousins, the fellow Greeks that went west seeking pasta, and found wine to allow them to rest, learning some of the finer traits the modern Greek goes without such as more discretion, common math skills and a gentlemen’s agreement he will allow his wife to drink the same tease, but hers from a bag different than the one he ensures is diamond endowed, fluffed and proud) I am not perfect.

I have tried to interact, and keep the faith. Many folks are still around, and have become better friends, for lack of wanting to get into some kind of psychoanalytical state of discretion about the definition of the word, but please spare me the need for you to ask the teacher if he can tell you where to draw the imaginary line in your playground. If you choose to look at it that way, imagine a giant oil dipstick filled with black gel in an Oldsmobile Cut’ass that is pulled out and drawn across my imaginary sandbox as well. It is here, let’s just for the sake of argument call it Fetaman.com.

Any questions, any time sunshine.

I shake my head at pursuing the “dream” of writing, creating my own site has been a “trip” considering it was going to be meant as an outlet for some expression, and used to help provide a figurative backbone sliding to the works that are coming out in 2013. That should include two separate “books”, one fictional that will likely be a series of 3 smaller ones to cover three very distinct reasons and commentaries on “orange grass”, and another biographical/research driven. The beginning of another project has yet to be fully announced, and all of them remain incredible new places and things in my life for which I am most grateful.

Nobody would argue it could be perceived as very challenging, so I am sure you will accept my apologies for the delay in the launch, but if you are following the site, or have some idea, you know some of it has been “writer’s issues” and the rest, just the way if is. Sorry.

Hell? Sure, the writing for some, but for me that would be much too arrogant of a word for it.

Non sequitur it appears, my heaven and “hell” has been one of my own making, intentional or otherwise. Whatever it has been, is something that I have been responsible for, and I am not ever going to be playing a victim role. Stating fact, or fiction, is still a statement when they are kept in the context of their own minds, and remain relative to the participating parties in a capacity that is both physically safe and secure, of course mentally assuring oneself of the control you have over your own thoughts is key lime in the pie.

I would suggest, but fuck. You don’t even know me, why would you take my word for it? Some random on the internet, no pictures, no public person – man almost as good as the politics and the childish bullshit you can find on Twitter, or any other social network. The anarchists, or the sleuth – the “artists” of their own works, making sure to spend time in some kind of soap opera setting.

I am not a “kiss and dump” guy – if you are still on the mutual following, which is a term I find ignorant and truly not worthy of the interactions that can occur, there has been something that kept us here, but seriously – how the fuck do you even begin to try to manage all of that time and those experiences while looking forward? Can we provide some kind of response to every small mathematical clue that is given, and still have no idea what we are doing about some definitive answer?

Nothing easy comes for free, or without some kind of contribution of effort, commitment and extended over the longevity. A delta trapped in the mindset over a period it seems and quite frankly, a transition and an experience, every part of it as real as the growing of one. From allowing certain pivot points to reflect their own directions and then sailing on, to carrying on – in whatever capacity you want.

No one here at Fetaman.com is going to be judging you – wherever you came from, in whatever social network – you converge there for the ability to do what that physical place or that site facilitates, and you come here to speak and contribute about whatever you want. If you think you are being judged, it is by yourself alone as you interpret these words.

I am grateful to have been a catalyst, said not with an arrogance or a reward demanded for service of acclaimed reactants forming their natural evolution.

Recall, that cold winter night and the shallow naive – there is a difference in judging and understanding that, which is not mutually inclusive.

I want to be including more of you in the site, and can only do that when a hand is extended in good faith.

That simple.

With Twitter, I have tried to venture back into the world of greetings, and small blurbs of information. Hits, quick bong hits, shots, candy and sugar rushes, smiles, passing out taint grenades, shitting on all the crap you despise in society, screaming at the asshole that did something wrong…the sound will resonate somewhere…so I can dig that. You are here for another reason tho…me as well…some have been nudged, and from their own diligence, and from what I clearly deem the lack thereof, they have made decisions to not pursue more of an interaction.

A mutual musing, and for a muse, in whatever shape or form – a welcome respite from the blend and bland lacquer finish on the aluminum, powder coated food machine that will hula hoop your goop.

My need for expression is in my own waking dream, my own “invisible brown acid”, and I shall not ask for permission, nor beg for forgiveness in order to satisfy the wondering of the amused and the confused at the sum of shit that is going to happen because of the magic that comes from my declaration, and proof, that grass is orange.

Form a line by the reaction to the expressions. I know for a fact, the velvet ropes have arrived, and they will guide you with the comfort of the gull wing shoes and the dark tones. If you are in a challenging headspace because of health, happiness, love…money…whatever it is, it colours things a vivid orange, and makes it all seem much more real in truth, handled by capacities chiseled with resounding devotion.

Passion ne’er looks back but to smile, and if now those colours are the same ones, even now, they must appear different. You are no longer in that space, that place, that time – that moment. You are “further” away from it, and so see it in a different shade. A different variable colour.

I can dig it – there is no sun, without any darkness – there is no happy all the time, to lie to oneself about it, is one of the greatest bullshit cons this world has begun to truly deal with. Professing to know, and do not believe I do so, I state very clearly what I do know, and am beyond well aware of it’s relevance.

Travesties that mankind continues to perpetuate, inflate and saturate. then wonder why the invisible brown acid makes people hallucinate, or whether those “friends” you have close to you, are really being sincere and genuine. Considering what that is, has to be based on the information that you do know, or what has been shared with you.

Even the best friends that you have in your life, are not going to be able to even know a drop in the bucket of what the real happenings in life are. Lift that pitcher, make me laugh – be there doing something for me, and I will be more than considerate of the terms. Ask to be given support, and kinship – be seen as the wink link in the chain or the one that is not welcome to join the procession of the luxury car cavalcade. Who the fuck wants to be seen with a CCM 10-speed/buckshot handlebars upturned grooving the bottles down the street in an obscure and unseen way…

*context smirk*

Your hell, is going to be something that is much different than the starving children and people around the world who have nothing to eat, and are in a position to do nothing about it. Seriously nothing. I am older now, and find myself wanting to do more in this regard. Helping those, that are in their own living hell – and have no way out. Other than a small miracle, a genuine hand of fate bringing some stranger to this calling. A sacrifice, for those that have prayed for it, and know they are blessed. As I am, for no longer seeing what I have gone through as the hell it was, but the hell that was manifested.

Your hell, is not a kind one, or of another one can consider making unless you are a coward. Makings of your own creation, your hell will involve yourself and after time, getting a firm grip on where you want to be going, you begin to see the wonder and the beauty in the admission, an apology and some empathy which emphasizes respect moving forward. Saying sorry, from the heart, for real is not a hell, neither is hell itself something to be sorry for.

Is.

Stay real, please – vent when you need to, laugh when you don’t. sing when there is darkness, fly when there is sun.

*smile*

I am on the ground, and others in mid air.
Sending in the clowns.
Approved bliss, still or moving.
Sending is an acknowledgment, not an arrival.
It was always there, as sure as the lines.
Sand, time, air – cares.
Don’t you love a farce?
Whine, and an outfit made of cheese.

Don’t bother, we’re here.
Is it rich?

Oh, how timing is everything.

My bow, is of the most humble today more than any other.

Grateful to be alive, to be blessed, to have so many folks who have come by to say hello and share a smile, or a tale and have out days better because of it, somehow.

“The grass, it is orange man.” – Gus

100,000.

*abide*

By

Therapist Ingrid.

“The seeing of the therapist is an answer for some.”

The years that it took to get there, that is another thing – and the fucking chair, fuck.

The bullshit of having to hear her repeat, just one more time “but Ingrid says” – Ingrid has become a fucking bullshit voice that represents the ingrown toenails on your big toe, that you can never remove from the crown inside the meat of the toe, you know, where all it does is torment you, in any position. Fucking ingrown hair, right on the inside of the legs, in the special spot that all of the magic lessons are supposed to come from.

Ingrid believes…” sang the ball of confusion to my single daft hair. It was the left ear, and so it was kind of special, all the fuckers on the right got the front row seat, so with an equal opportunity for my disenfranchised friends on the does not feel like your own side of things, I kept my attention on the fish in the tank.

Wonder if fish would enjoy weed? Soggy munchies would suck tho.

This is how fucked society is, we are allowing others to tell us what to do, and how to run it.

“Listen closely, and do not think for yourself. There is a process to the paperwork.”

That would cause you be aloof, and obscure, you would be running amuck, and not in the right place according to the charts. These are the papers, that tell you that you shall be real, and well again. Do not worry about the other thoughts in your head, those are your own, and not for us to deal with now.

“We must take care of the social side of your performance,” she said with great curiosity.

Fuck, are my movements to apparent for this interview? Is she going to know that I did that, and where on the scale of the Klondike Bar would this fit? Is it ok to do that much, or should I have done less? What if it was a real hot day, and not only hungry, but thirsty?

Why in the name of all that is holy would anyone ever pick the vowel u? Who the fuck has to pick the vowel u, other than some – yeah, there is something hot about those legs, and with age it may come off as sounding sexist, but fuck. Wheel of Fortune has been on long enough, and we are in an open society. Physically attractive legs, are beautiful things, and we should be able to admire them. That is why they are groomed and made to look so delicious so we can enjoy them.

There – I thought it, that is a step.

Now telling Ingrid about what I imagine Pat’s legs to look like under those cuffed wool chaps he is wearing is going to be a bit of a challenge today, so maybe I can wait until after Maui Week.

“You must adhere to the rules, or you will not get any more assignments.”

Listening to the word is offensive, so don’t call them assignments anymore. Just hear objectives, sales objectives. The number had to be grabbed by one of the cogs. It was to be fed to another one, and into the machine went the dreams of the living, no regard for anything but keeping some kind of motion in tact for the performance reviews. They mattered, and not the lives of those vested in the funds.

The tulip farm was an ecological wonder, it was not without some pride the clogs just snapped into place. It was as if rhythm was a dancer, and he could feel it everywhere.

The sound of music the clogs made, three very distinct tones, Ingrid would never forget.

Wood across carpet, as it blended with the chords of metal along a zippered trail made for the Docker in you.

The small swift glance along the leather Herman Miller’s that were locked in place, long enough for three complete open and shut lids, in hindsight she wished she never allowed to get past the first blink.

The river dance of wood on wood was the golden pond of peace for him, for just that moment, for as the heels rocked him in his comfortable squat, he lay perfectly positioned over the papers on table and stared directly into her eyes, as he shit out dinner from Appleby’s the night before.

“Moon landing, shit cakes say what Ingrid?”

 *abide*