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

By

Happy Father’s Day Momma.

I was pretty much raised by my mother.

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

The mother, my mother.

A documented miracle.

I got a few of ’em.

*sip

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

We left with holes in our shoes.

This is no lie, we hid.

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

Home was not safe anymore.

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

Fuck us all.

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

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

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

So I did.

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

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

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

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

You want to be the best?

Find seven more.

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

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

Too hot.

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

It is all fiction.

Life is a lie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The grass is orange.

It is any colour you want it to be.

Happy Father’s Day Momma.

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

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

Because you are.

I love you, forever.

*abide*

By

Echo in the chasm.

So you think you can tell.
Heaven from well, orange grass from pain.
A smile from my veil, a walk on part on my worn out Rimowa.

Well, not until you try, not to have to do it, but because you need to satisfy that urge. Confirm the reality of the situation, and smirk, smile, call it whatever you want to perceive cause you are going to perceive it anyway you want regardless of what I do or so, so be aware I retain that same right.

I am literally walking around this “experiment” as way of complimenting the writing, making sure I have another outlet (*this seems to be questionable, sucking so much energy out of the day to day life at times it is a miracle. I am a-fucking-live, I had an 8 year fight with cancer in various forms, and deal with all the shit of regular folks, plus the racist looks and feta slavery. You think I am kidding, who serves you more in your life, bound to your every wish and desire to coat and top everything that modern mad has come to cover over the caveman? Cheese. Slave to the masters.) and was inspired by a couple of folks I have seen on “that” side I have connected with via timeline.

This timeline has our diversions, the video game take away from life for a quality of what – followers? Zombies that are wanting to press a button, and star a tweet and then move on?

Well, this is my call to action below.

I state the case very clearly, and I am not mincing words in any capacity. Not in the spreadsheets, in the calls, in the notes, in the waves and and the false idols represented by a preceding statement being less than the number 3. Is the number 3 supposed to represent the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost? Is this some kind of sub-tweet for Einstein, mocking him about the use of the number being thrown around like some of the dicks in this place, some glory whole for the unfiltered whore that wants to fuck another with the intent of a value not expressed in the honest and open transaction of the place she sits to gather and show her wares? For the sake of political correctness, and remaining true to my commentary on the social side in whatever happens to be the place on the lane – the man whore is merely another form of the same “honourable” profession, all for tea bags in some capacity.

We judge by the actions being louder than the words, and will be a part of the journey, regardless of what the choice is.

I have all ready won, simply by having my eyes opened.

There is no way, none what so ever, that all of the people that I follow, or who follow me, are going to be able to see the tweets alone, especially in that environment. That is not only understood, but has been re-inforced.

What is interesting is those that have, and to what extent.

I have offered a handshake, and made it clear – I am not here for the invisible ghost masturbation jerk move. I am also not crushing that which needs to be kept whole, there are some things which are just too real and close to others, even myself, that is not mean for the drama played out on the social stage.

You can save that shit for the bots, and the computer trophies.

My trophy is a handshake, and action.

Everything else is fiction, financed by the quarter you put in the pinball machine.

Wizards need not apply.

Ownership is never deemed to be owned by any application a monk makes, other than their own.

*abide*

**note: the iPod giveaway/”handshake” bowling league is going to be extended until Friday, April 26th @ 4:20 pm. I had noted it twice yesterday, and making sure to note it here also for any of the “active” users or reviewers. Also a great way to document the journey, and what is behind this site – and what is being shaped – I am truly blessed to have lived. Would not be the same without you, those of you here, and in fact, just as importantly, those of you that are not.

By

Mai Tie

Here is something to ponder.

What the fuck are you doing here? I mean, I am pretty sure of what I am doing. I can only say pretty sure, because nothing is absolute. It is constantly in a state of flex and change, and fucking hell – do you really think I am not aware of the stupidity? Including my own.

Shit in my life is real, and somehow, other’s seem to be at a point in their lives that theirs is required to be avoided, because it stinks so bad the only way to deal with it is to ignore it, like some kind of misery that is to be forgotten as a cause from their own actions and consequences.

Take a moment and sit back, reflect on the reality of it all.

Let it sink in, if it needs to.

Go on, you deserve it.

*smirk*

In deserving, there is more – there is an earned and blessed feeling.

Comfort is neither hot or cold, a smile or a laugh.

It is being in the moment and living it to understand the beauty, even in the tragedy of the falling of life by the wayside of Time. Accompanied by his alter-ego, Age, Time ensures you are aware that closer to it shall you go, but never to you will it come.

It does not need to, it is right there beside you as the most precious thing you hold in your life.

It is only a matter if you make it so.

Else, it will follow you on the miles you choose to own.

Looking around me today, the  sun is shining.
I am alive, and no longer hovering in a state of fear from a cancer.
My wealth is not defined by the numbers in any regard, but by a cerebral sutra that allows me to abide by anything that comes forth.

It sounds like a bunch of bullshit, and some kind of mysterious lame Duck Daced font mantra…
sure fucking thing sunshine, sure fucking thing.

Sure you got it all figured out, and are walking those miles.

I am going outside to do some lawn bowling today, and if anyone has got a problem with it they can fill in an official form, the FU-101 – it’s the blue one, right over there on the box, beside the unicorn having a coffee with Doug Henning and Moses.

“It’s spring time motherfucker, do you have it?” said Samuel.

I imagine he is smiling though, about to roll his bocci ball. It will be easy to spot, because the grass is only now starting to show the signs of the orange that most don’t know.

They see it as green.

green buckets, blue dog, Ellas car horns, Kola, decades pass, abide, fetaman.com, fetaman, iFeta, fetaChops, brinesanity

“There is no salvation in becoming adapted to a world which is crazy.” – Henry Miller

*abide*