fetaman.com

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

By

Happy Birthday to…

What an incredible odyssey.

It has been a year since the site officially became mine.

I had waited over 8 years to be able to get past all of this, and before that – you have no fucking clue.
None.

You think I am not aware of what is “out there” – and what the “lines look like”…really?

Do you think a plan, that has been made for decades, even a lifetime if one considers it, is really just something that simply happens?

You have the sleuth ability to start to get hooked, and like the heroine town you may exist in, or the hero mind you do, you are addicted to taking it to the next level.

To finding out more, to getting past the reality of Survivor, and the fake fucking bandana’s and the bullshit positioning from Day 1 – “I am just here to make some friends, I am so naïve, I am so strong, I am so fucking smart, I am so fucking stupid…oh look, a tortoise with a hare on his back…do they even have hair…”

I know who the fuck fetaman is.

Pretty fucking proud of it as well, because I know it all – except for you.
You are the know it all I want to meet.
So does Gus.

He is interested in beginning to introduce himself over the next few weeks.
His biography is coming out.

Pretty fucking impressive, and having had the chance to not only interview him, but also having been given the chance to verify accounts, eyewitnesses and documented proof.

One of the strangest, oddest, brightest, most eccentric, gifted, smart, angry, loving, caring, compassionate, valiant abiders I have ever known.
If not the single greatest…

Gus runs on his own time.
So do I.

It is a birthday celebration and it is combined with a publishing. What more could anyone ask? I mean, seriously – what a long strange trip, and where are we still? Yes, just seeing some of the invisible brown acid come to life. A special K of sorts.

The biography, the story, of Gus…

Don’t expect synchronicity.

This is a delicate operation, and if you want to be part of it.

Welcome to it – you can either RT this link, direct with the question included, or you can #orangegrass it up, either is a chance to ask Gus, and I can assure you, he will answer.

Celebrate or don’t.
Trust me, this has nothing to do with hunching over anything – not a typewriter, not a water tray, not some village code, not a table of weed, not a set of bullets, not a conspiracy of shades that are something new…

I know.
Hard to believe.

Trust me.
I fucking know.

It doesn’t matter though.
Cause the clock, the watches – the story of Gus.

It becomes clearer with each passing day, and in the coming 30 days, how many and when are just beside the Fuqu Pyramid, just take a coat hanger and levitate near it.

There is a whole year to explore behind this, and there is much more for myself.

Being an interviewer, is one interesting experience.

Care to play?

fetaman/ _

*truly a wonderful, gracious humble bow today – humility asks for, and asks no excuses, for it too…*abides*

****this is where I insert my own happy birthday to fetaman.com – for the real fetaman, from the real fetaman, with a background heralded by associates. Go ahead, link from the site – fill in the question, I promise. I am pretty sure Gus would answer most honourable, logical and discretion sensitive inquiries. To the point of the dedicated box that is running the code – the rest, my…look…a shiny set of keys. Oh wait, it may be a text…did that arrive? No, must be a lonely time, grab the flash light…only 45 metres across the way…no, the...the way…

*************Yes, this is 13 of them, is that “code” also.

*******Gus thinks so.

*iAbide*

By

Change.

It was not possible for one to have to avoid the cold these days. The winter has a harsh bite, and you can find comfort in it. Warm and cradled in the warmth of the world that surround the cotton accounts and the flared sweat pants that scream of your disregard for judgment of others. In some, the action is to actually receive a judgment that needs to validate something.

Sunshine was abound, the skies were left for the sounds of the neighborhood “no frills” – a place where “they” would come. It was convenient.

Not so convenient for one walking in to it, in order to buy the produce that had not been purchased by the Rolls Royce shopper. Down at the docks, with a driver holding the caviar and the tasting stick near him somewhere. He would not be able to select the freshest or the best without these tools. Without this sommelier sorting system, that had the right of first refusal on even those 1000 crates.

Yes, hold them for me. If I want them, great – else, take the 30% deposit as juice that will take the nutrients from the food that was grown and made for all, by the hands of a God or of the Universe, still made and created with time and with love and hope for a sense of continuity and health – yes, take that and allow it to rot and ferment, age into disregard by my patrons, but you can sell it to some other schlep grocer to sell.

Here I am Mr. Grocer, thanks for the surroundings. Reminds me of the tins of preserved food that was fed to the soldiers, as the real food and the budgets and the oils to keep these young men that fought for their countries freedom, warm. They don’t need to be warm though, they are warm enough from their hearts and the love that comes from them as they evade taxes and cheat and lie.

The way of the world it seems.
Welcome to the machine.

Annoyance, irritation and frivolous thought having to wonder alone in the aisles today, mine was awareness and a sense of what is real and true. A seeming ability to see through and feel the people around me, many of them smiling and looking into my eyes as if they knew that as I passed the sad old lady, with a cart carrying all of the stereo types one needed to broadcast who she was, but you were hearing a signal on another frequency.

Your chords, strummed the notes of disdain, and not compassion for being aware of what could be. This is much different than the contempt one feels for liars, or known cheats. People that have attempted to lie, cheat or steal the way through the system, and even they, if they “repent” (*for lack of interest in clarifying, yours is the religious inference, mine is the literal one of a man born into a state of nature, knowing the difference between cold steel and a veil) shall be given a smile, and an exchange of the walk on part for the lead role in their own cage.

The sadness in life, and what someone has to do to overcome it, will come in drops and in stages, all of use battling to get out of the cage and cut through to the freedom that lays on the other side, with no interest in anything but embracing even the hardships and knowing you had come from that time, you had lived that – you had been there, and the place you may or may not be living in right now, is not something that can allow you to simply avoid the true questions.

One only you can answer.

Gus thought of his my mother and the things that they had done to get there. She took the place of the lady at the front of the line – that was behind the one with the wheelchair. That was bad enough, a mood had begun to stir, and the frustrations of the time ticking by with all of these things, cans and bottles, heavier with each pant that she had to take.

It was the matrix, my matrix.

So pretty momma, so proud to be standing there. It did everyone well to see you so beautiful in what you have accomplished. Incredible to learn and re-live the struggles of our lives, an earlier life and of a time, that is not a requisite requiem for a dream so much as a symphony of the miracle and the life you have lived. To know the heart that has born so much, to see through the eyes of the only lady who has stood beside me as the true mother, regardless of hardships and triumphs – always there. Always has wanted to be, and done as much as she could do – to simply walk. The story is of another level that requires nothing more than the snap of a crisp joint. Odd the sound of the snap being like coins hitting metal.

The proud look had seemed so clear and in front of me, but before me now stood a poor woman who has gone through so much, that she had little left to do but to dump her change on the counter and hope it added to the sum needed to pay for the food.

Keeping her eyes low, she gathered her selected items and waited for the tidbits to be returned to her.

Items were left on the conveyor, not his turn yet.

She had left a small box of Jello at the end of the bag section, and he noticed it – appreciated it for what it was, something important – just a small thing, some powdered gelatin for a small desert, and some kind of treat to eat after dinner.

There was no cause of alarm, nobody noticed, no one would have.
It was smooth, like the flash of the silver under the beaten jacket and the track pants – never seen.

The only person who would notice, and then never have noticed is that beautiful lady, with a life that was not asking, but received.

What she received was enough to make the next several months better, and in doing that, the world became a better place.

Just as it is, just because.

Don’t try, he said.

*abide*

By

One small step…?

It is a small step?

It was a small undertaking, unimportant.

iGus peers from the shadows of “fiction”.

I abide.

Oh, how the truth does set one free.

Cowards need not apply, liars lay in thine grass.

No issue, I own my miles, in my gulch.

The grass is orange.

Fuck you cancer, we win…again.

μάνα, για πάντα στην καρδιά μου.

*abide*

02-16-2013 

By

Armstruth “I am just a good fella”

On the tour, around the world special diets and supplements were used, natural of course, good, simple food. So what if they were not in the cooked books, or the small pressings of re-issued prescriptions like microwaved media. Why can’t people just acknowledge that Armstruth was simply doing what he was told, to eat nothing too complex, allow the supplies to go in one end, be processed, then leaving the back end in tiny brown envelopes. There is no proof, and there is no flaming cigar syringe that proves he had any type of metabolic tantric relations with Usada Dope, the Nigerian immigrant that was purchased by a French Tour de Bovine route farmer, that hoped the annual traffic would help sustain his family.

Armstruth thought he was doing the right thing, when he stopped on the side of the road that day, and it all changed. As a result of believing what a simple dairy farmer had suggested would be a good remedy for his ailing pistons and pumps, believing that the cream was not frozen, it was warmed. It is really cream, and not cow shit with alfalfa in it and that is healthy because Pharmataint, the global authority on all things good for humans says so. Then after watching the 9 year old sistah lift the cows tail and Dairy Queen swirl one glorious mound of love into that beauty. I must admit, it was impressive to see the chase care footage show him knock that bitch out with one strike, and the round house delivered to the farmer – Bruce Lie approved.

That is not an ice cream cone you best be serving to some wise guys in Brooklyn. Even if you think it may go off like apologizing for calling them just slimy, and cunty, but not fat. So Pratatoe applies the FYLM (Fuck You Lie to Me methodology, invented in Staford by the same team that invented the Senate Sock, the enhanced congressional fleshlight found within all first world governing quorum facilities, including the public speaking chambers) principle.

*all re-enactments of the following parts of the Armstruth dialogues are meant to convey the appearance of a drug fuelled good guys dinner, in Brooklyn looking for guerilla footage of the elusive Zitizilla, a gargantuan fucking ape, with the ability to disguise his entrance into the Times Square Anal Bead Cinematography festival with daft integration, and limited repercussions. Please note, the extension of the mind required to imagine a giant mobster ape, of any ethnic background, eating a deli sammich, scratching the proverbial balls, may be elusive and should not to be attempted by anyone without two thumbs.

<scene III>

[the table is covered with reports from the UBS-Whorebird HNW Division, we see the Bogota emeralds outlining the pictures of the Kwanzaa tree from O. Pratatoe’s holiday trip. Sparkling Eunuch Springs water bottles remain, they are placed next to the CrewRig Insta-Adrenaline brewer strategically replacing the BO$E system for this segment]

O. Pratatoe: You’re a pistol, you’re really funny. You’re really funny.
Armstruth: What do you mean?
O. Pratatoe: It’s funny, you know. It’s a good story, it’s funny, you’re a funny guy – like how the fuck you think you going to tell me, you was wanting to make sure she is dafriend still, an ‘pologized?
<lighter heard, bong rips>
Armstruth: What do you mean, you mean the way I talk? What? In circles, and always under the guise of not totally admitting fault, cause that would mean the bugs in the room youse gotz in here are gonna be all fazoole and shit?
<huge breasted 1920’s cigarette girl comes by, tray is filled with elastic bands with the FYPM emblazoned across them, hand gesture, with a sweet follow up ass slap and kissing lips sound>
O. Pratatoe: It’s just, you know…fuck look at dat azz…mmmmm, hmmmm…yeah, you’re just funny, it’s… funny, the way you tell the story and everything… called her a whore, but not a fat whore. That is bullshit, what a fucking joke, that you would not remember saying it, and yeah, prescilly portant to someone he knew was.
Armstruth: Funny how? What’s funny about it? Like you think I am not being sincere here?
Balls Lebowski (Voice, producer, off-set): Armski no! You got it all wrong!!
Armstruth: Oh, oh, Anthony. He’s a big boy, he knows what he said. What did ya say? Funny how?
O. Pratatoe: Jus…seems De Niro healed, know? Not analyzed-really. Not healed, and not telling the truth…you seem full of fucking shit, and a selfish fuck looking to get back into the circuit because your gravy train is now Purina dog food boiled in the kettle with some shallots from your fucking spice garden you fucking gamboom? You want me to get Van Fraudde to come over and show you how we play Two Nipple Monte?
Armstruth: How much for dee beetle girl?
<mimic best Belushi impression, and pretends to eat O. Pratatoe’s calf like a chicken leg>
O. Pratatoe: Just…Animal House?
Armstruth: You mean, let me understand this cause, ya know maybe it’s me, I’m a little fucked up maybe, but I’m funny how, I mean funny like imma not doing the blues like a brother well enough for you, I amuse you? I make you fucking laugh <hard glance to camera> Imma here to fuckin’ amuse you? What do you mean funny, funny how? How am I funny?
O. Pratatoe: Just… you know, how you tell the story. Keep lying. Hol’lying it up for the new rubber band sales person cause she is all “hearts on my door” and “I love you” and shit, playing the media whore with 38 abortions on your record – 3 of them francophone, speaking cows man.
Armstruth: No, no, I don’t know, you said it. What the fuck does “the only path back to wealth is his ability to placate now” mean? How do I know? You said it. How the fuck <holds up hands in papal fashion, clasping manicured nails purchased by donation tenderly to not wash off the glaze, shits expensive yo> – so many deserters, and now my Pratatoe appearance is gonna be like fucking a stranger in the ass?
O. Pratatoe: [long pause] Get the fuck out of here, ArmedTruth! Owl Grove
<throws gang sign, concealed by the wiggly box shit some techie puts over the film>
Armstruth: [everyone laughs] Ya motherfucker! I almost had you, I almost had you. Ya stuttering prick ya. Balls, was she shaking? I wonder about you sometimes, Poe-taught. You may fold under questioning if those motherfucker’s at UBS-Whorebird get snapped into the wood shed behind the lake during the Vig Split ‘n Spitt Cookout at the grove.

THIS POSTS FREE O. PRATATOE LEARNING THINK GOES TO:
*The Gulch.

 photo goodFetastyles_zpsfc9af73b.jpg

You know what the real shame is, that more fucking people are going to think that all bad guys are in leather, or cheap suits trying to blend in until the Rolex flashes. Let those that cast no stones on the philanthropic tides remind us of why we must not believe anymore, and let one fucking asshole stereotype lead us into temptation. Paradigm is shifted with the lenses, and the macro or the micro look will tell the difference of reality, from where your mind really sits today. Wake up and fuckin’ live. The grass is fucking orange man. The grass. Is. Fucking. Orange.

*abide*

By

Armstruthtonged: Flipflopology on the Bike

Go ahead, reach into your overnight Adidas bag, bring out the gold flip flops. Become a world class flipflipologist. Make it reign Frankie Wilde styles. Discover the beauty in the similarities of bicycle wheels and records both being round, look at those disco biscuits and come hurling into the stadium all confident and sure that your clean ways will be welcomed in the parting sea of flesh you witness before you, or have convinced yourself of existing for the sake of one blissful night dancing away to the tribal rhythms and photo album memories greased with 34% proof O’pratatoe vodka.

Or maybe you think the cameras don’t see that context smirk and your attitude? After all, the walls in the room are a mellow cobblestone tone, similar to the one’s in the 87 of the countries you toured in, disposing of your lies to people that hoped you could be real, and not another fucking human tragedy consumed by the masses for mind calories wanting for some kind of substance in the face of malnutrition.

*all re-enactments of the following parts of the Armstruth dialogues are meant to convey the appearance of a drug fuelled rave, in Goa looking for guerilla footage of the elusive jawmonger, a travelling modern day cyclist him/herself. Caution when invading the space of the jawmonger, as it may result in passive acceptance of his awkward dance moves based on the hope that you can experience love in this state. Please note, the extension of the mind required to imagine a cycle as a dose or a round of drugs, over a period of time that can be considered pretty “normal” to (ab)users, may be elusive and should not to be attempted by pop music fans, anyone who still has a Michael Jackson album, and sloth. Any and all sloth, or slothii, should not proceed.

<scene II>

[crystal buckets, beach sized with small platinum scoops are lined up, each a different shape – cocaine, ecstasy, meth, et al. Sparkling Eunuch Springs water bottles remain. Swaying hips of Foodstamp Servers move gently to the house music in the background. The shot of the B0$E system is snuck into frame]

O. Pratatoe: Was it a big deal to you, did you feel thong?
Armstruth: On a dime? No.
<purses eyebrows, that tap out code to the black ops website translators, furnishing more information that must be buried in this HTML-Dali code: The Tall Elephants are Gathering>
O. Pratatoe: Was selling your soul, to wear thongs, wrong?
<head is swaying gently to some Digweed, just like it was on the shores of Maui when they rehearsed this set. O. Pratatoe was in charge of the light mixer over the ocean, and the signals to the Somalian pirates off shore ready to ignite the Roman Candle fireworks set to cascade in the form of a badger>
Armstruth: No, quite fair. E?
<head nods passionately, crows feet disappear>
O. Pratatoe: Did you feel bad about sharing your hammock and flipflopUniballogy?
Armstruth: No, just hairier.
<sign languages the two walking feet over his palm, in circular motions and the audio impaired reader posts “Fred Flinstone Can Start a Car Like This” as he nods his head and winks>
O. Pratatoe: Did you feel, in any way that your bullshit was overheating?
Armstruth:  No, the scariest.
<eyes pop open, the vowel hits here, pupils dilate, we see a reflection in the window of a man holding a cue card with the words “winning” barely visible, upon any screenshot and HD review of it, the viewers would see Charlie Sheen being the holder of the cue card crafted of tiger blood black ink and parchment layers of chemical peels removed from mattress quests of skewered goddesses and concubines>
O. Pratatoe: What do you mean?
Armstruth: Well, when you wear the flip flops man, it’s perfection.
O. Pratatoe: Seriously, your woo is peeing on my mind here dude…
Armstruth: When I can’t wait to ride, I am an artist.
<quick scene cut to page flipping media cards, camera pans as soon as the word Rat Salad appear>
O. Pratatoe: What?
Armstruth: I am the walrus.
O. Pratatoe: Phil, bring us a couple of bumps, this is getting good…
Armstruth: I just stare at the flip flips under the lever…
O. Pratatoe: Who exactly is the walrus, and did he force you to take the drugs and come perform at this magic festival we are at? <eyes thrust open like porcelain bone saucers, flying, fucking, saucers> SOMEONE THROW TULIP PETALS AT ME – I LOVE THIS TRACK!
Armstruth: Look I have a Campagnolo lever, I got from Ibiza!!
O. Pratatoe: I was considering buying that place once…
<camera DPS-HD1 fades to black, cut to a funny fucking link, and not a sponsor, so dig it, all the posts have multiple media links in them, that is part of the way we role>

THIS POSTS FREE O. PRATATOE LEARNING THINK GOES TO:

“Do you suffer from PTEP? PTCP? PTSP? Post Traumatic E-potato Placement, Comma Placement, of Syntax Prolapse is a serious illness. Many claim it is done intentionally, however few have the tangents to prove it. Dr. Filinstein’s Poegrow metastasizes with all brands of soda and O’pratatoe brand chips. Free shipping by the US Postal Service, mailing parcels my not be exactly as illustrated.”

*For men experiencing a prolonged, painful erection, taking this medication to stay on Team Fur Munchhousen seek immediate medical attention or permanent problems could result in you becoming asexual. All persons  should contact a fucking doctor immediately. All medical treatment will be paid for by the machine, under the Fair Noshit Sherlock Statute of 1923, if you experience a missed menstrual period; breast lump or discharge; calf or leg pain, swelling, or tenderness; change in amount of urine produced; chest pain or heaviness; confusion; coughing up blood; fainting; irregular heartbeat; left-sided jaw, neck, shoulder, or arm pain; mental or mood changes (such as depression); numbness of an arm or leg; one-sided weakness; persistent, severe, or recurring headache or dizziness; severe stomach pain or tenderness; slurred speech; sudden severe vomiting; sudden shortness of breath; symptoms of liver problems (such as yellowing of the skin or eyes, fever, dark urine, pale stools, loss of appetite); unusual or severe vaginal bleeding; or vision changes (such as sudden vision loss, double vision as a result of buying this shit. This slot has been strategically selected to appease our corporate interests, the lobby teams coordinated efforts, Headscratch Cycle-psycho, and all narcissists willing to accept apologies over weight as a condition for kinship and financial remuneration from once again swinging on the hairy veins, like Tarzan buoys in the Armstruth jungle.

*abide*

By

O. Pratato? Armstruth, tonged.

I do not dwell in my shit, or my fight for it. I recognize it, and the glory of remission in hand, is better than the hope for the two in the bush. Living strong means taking what you can get, to survive. That is what caused me to believe in the man, Lance Armstrong. A public figure that suffered much of the same fate as many a man, literally, and of course inspired millions with his “lies”.

That is what all still state, and yes, there were lies within the realm of everything else that is out there, and so you can not recognize that even to return, to ride and finish, is an accomplishment. To have been given what he had, and to disregard it with the brash wave of the hand is almost unholy.

Cancer is not to be fucked with. What it extent it played in all of this, and how, is not even being considered as a contributing factor, or a delineating one, and I find that not only tragic, but something that fully flies in the face of truth and convention. When someone is dealing with some pretty harsh shit, physical or mentally capable of killing more than just dreams or goldfish, it plays a role.

A big fucking role.

Here, what this fictional consideration looks at, is leagues ahead of the bullshit that Howard Lederer pulled in the online poker world, and I snapped watching all of his shit, I have some stuff I am going to micro ship as a rantella shortly. That is a blend of ranting mixed with some novella sizing to add a little love to the day/weekend. (*Fuck you buy a shitty paper on the street for $0.50 – slip a bro some change for some coffee would yeah, they took my medals too)

Well they tried to.
*wink*

So in order to prevent any of the sensitive crap from the likes of folks that may go apeshit when someone like Rolling Stone splashes me on the cover for being brilliant and delightfully intriguing and funny and all of that other bullshit we read in the fake Twitter bio’s, which are pretty “obvious” – like finding that swamp sinkhole it the back of the family cottage. Digging for gold.

Getting Armstruthtonged means reaching into a shit infested swamp, to try to bring out gold and riches for others, hoping they will not try to wipe that shit eating grin off your face and its fallacious representations. Continued half truth’s that have to be waxed on and waxed off between pelican poses on sandy shores in distant lands with huge mother fucking tongs, used to hopefully disguise your missing testicular soul mate.

Which is cool, I mean, if you got to roll that way.

As a uniBaller, or as either of the two characters introduced below, you know, as fictional and satirical prose.

Call it Feta Verité.

That is the way I would role, and if they had the chance to run corporate America, to be able to follow the same philosophy I saw last night, and will cap off tonight, the world would be a great fucking place.

*the re-enactment of the following dialogue is meant to convey the appearance of a drug fuelled acid trip, into Phukit looking for guerilla footage of the elusive fuqranauticus Salonica, a large white tower shaped vestibule on the shores of distant brines. Please note, the extension of the mind required to imagine a huge stone building just walking around “trying” to be elusive in any regard is significant and is not to be attempted by mental fuqranauts.

[table filled with Belgian chocolate dipped Twinkies, sparkling Eunuch Springs water bottles, and Iceberg Oysters*]

*Iceberg Oysters are also highly forbidden, but this batch was delivered by Dr. Hiandrye. They are gathered by forlorn Norwegian widows who have been implanted with precious audience participation gifts like aqualungs and Icarian GPS for one purpose. To harvest sveal balls from virgin, organic Arctic sea icebergs. A sveal must be between a particular age, and the more exotic one’s are marked on the snouts with exotic tribal tattoo depictions of bacon, hockey sticks and pine cones.

O. Pratatoe: The corporate team made you do it, 
but you still did it?
<slurps Iceberg Oysters, licks fingers>
Armstruth: I don’t want to say anything, but Ferrari – ummmm…
O. Pratatoe: Coke cans in the trash, admit liability?
Armstruth: Ummmmmm, nope.
O. Pratatoe: Dude, that is pretty fuqt.
<tucks a couple of the Iceberg’s away in the bra, winks to Camera FL-HD2>
Armstruth: Ummmmm, yeah.
<plucks nosehair, to shed a tear which made of diamonds crushed from the coal shoved up his ass from sponsors and crushed internally by his heart, and fired by lies, creating the perfect environment for synthetic diamond creation, the source of his wealth, and the black ops sponsor of fetaman.com the site, which is why my small descriptions of scene frames involve the same disregard for civility as teabaggin’ the UN Headquarters Main door entry knob, everyone would touch it and never know, right?>
O. Pratatoe: They said you all did that, and saw you.
Armstruth: Ummmmmm, potato.
O. Pratatoe: Seriously, are you telling me you can’t remember or this is some kind of Armstruthtongedian philosophy?
Armstruth: Oh, pratato?

THIS POSTS FREE O. PRATATOE LEARNING THINK SLOT GOES TO:

“Yeah, you even got the back seat closet in the Mini to prove you mean business -see that, that is a sock pouch. Know why? Cause when they sign with me, I leave ’em my socks. So they can remember me, as they will never see these feet again after I remove them from their ass that lovely mourn.”*
*spelling meant to evoke a response, and those of you that did not get that are required to go back, read that again, and then ignore this asterix until it is no longer relavant, or until this has been filled with more feta and unicorn dust.

*abide*

By

Tropic of Cancer

“An artist is always alone – if he is an artist. No, what the artist needs is loneliness.”

Henry Miller

By

Smelling salt

How you can feel so bad, and somehow you need the smell of a cologne, you have not worn it or looked “good” in months, years – how can you feel good?

Is it the media that says this, or just natural human desire?

What is going to make you beautiful, despite the life that is lead to the reflections and the journey that you take, each day to define the life and wonder that comes with the hope and desire to do?

What we do, often is seen as a need to satisfy the other’s in a society that demands reflection is only the purpose in paying attention to the detail that you must notice in the other’s attired. Never weary to continue to reflect the living of the person that sits in front of you this moment, on the screen.

Is it a shadow that you see, and one that includes yourself – travelling the roads, or having been along a journey the sheds a tear, and you reach for the tissue. Emotions.

Controlling your actions.

Watching it all, to experience it. To tell yourself a story, and remind yourself of why, today is a beautiful day.

In all of my poverty, and in all of my stupidity, I find my self worth and vast riches, a blessing no one can value but myself.

To have been blessed, in these recent days with the challenges, and to have been able to walk those miles with my mother, to have seen my niece and nephews smiling and growing…

Wealth.

In my gulch, there is no money. The fool considers me a peer and a sibling, who ponders the monetary note as anything more than a means to an end.

The intent, and the glory of it all.

The struggle to find the peace, only then becomes such a thing of beauty you abide by nothing else.

*abide*

A Reflection from Variable on Vimeo.

By

Feeling good

Birds flying high you know how I feel
Sun in the sky you know how I feel
Breeze driftin’ on by you know how I feel

It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
It’s a new life
For me
And I’m feeling good

Fish in the sea you know how I feel
River running free you know how I feel
Blossom on the tree you know how I feel

Dragonfly out in the sun you know what I mean, don’t you know
Butterflies all havin’ fun you know what I mean
Sleep in peace when day is done
That’s what I mean

And this old world is a new world
And a bold world
For me

Stars when you shine you know how I feel
Scent of the pine you know how I feel
Oh freedom is mine
And I know how I feel

*Feeling Good, Nina Simone

 

Sitting around making sure, that the feeling of the good is all about what I am going to be getting out of the words that you may. Sitting here, feeling like all of those things, just opens up a dictionary of words and functions that will all blend into some kind of magical matrix that is to be instantly understood and read by all, like the light of day flashing on the pavement that is pounded on the way to the destination.

Whatever that may be for you.

For me, it involves having to get through another day of hardship, in my own way, no different than yours. Struggling to find the reasons why I need to stay on the right path, and do the right thing. Maintain the fluid flow of a bunch of lies that are painted to make other’s feel like I am well, so I do not have to startle them or make them feel any less at odds with the way I am feeling. I wonder, when I finally die, will there be a reflection on these words and some kind of somber sadness that comes with knowing those days could have been spent better, and not driving one away from the reflections, but embracing them with a smile like you would a lost brother.

Someone, that may have been the closest friend you ever had in the world, that really supported you through some of the worst times in the world, and now you stand with what you believe are but a handful.  A collection of three, or four that comes with the maternal love and friendship I can only hope you enjoyed as I did, despite the challenges that come with a mother that has her limitations. Like we all do. The limitations of how far you can take a friendship, or how many you can really hold.

How far, you will really hold on to the thoughts of yourself, before you allow another to force you into the conformity that will not allow you to really be? You do not want to spend your life alone, you must find someone, else you will be a failure. You will not have attracted a butterfly to carry your dust to another.

How far back, will you go into the family history, and question the madness of an alcoholic parent  hoping it is finally solved, will tomorrow be any different? Will I find love from his memory then, knowing it is finally exposed – or will the truth expose the lies and beget the questions of why another would still carry them forward in some kind of lies?

You choose, to occupy your mind with the many thoughts that  you do, that I do, that we do, for a reason. For the intention of coming to some kind of conclusion or decision, to make the day a better one. To flow with it, and keep it on the course of the pleasant and beautiful world. The surrounding of oneself with the glorious meadows and the fantastic streams, like the song. Above. In the link. Like the hundreds of links on the site, and in the writings, that I am sure many have not seen. Perhaps they can’t.

It is hard to see the forest from the trees.

Six degrees of separation on that one, and I can tell you I got at least a dozen of each that flashed through the mind prompting me to take another direction, and move to another stream of thought, of consciousness. Awareness. I really don’t know, I let the fingers type. Most of this, remains unfiltered. That is to say, it speaks of the questions and in the way I do. Not intended for the weak of spirit, because I am not weak of spirit. Not because it is meant as some kind of elitist thing that has me be better than anyone else.

I am not, I am convinced, I am an idiot.

This does not make me a fool, and neither does it facilitate me suffering them.

Unless I want to, like you do. Like you want to keep reading to find out that the rivers carry the shit and refuse of the mind as well. They are not all golden ponds. They are complete eco-systems of sorts, with a busy and passing glance seen to be so calm and tranquil, but in the deep recess, we are told in literature and alike, carved into the rocks the messages of the ages screams of the science behind it all, and still we see only the top of it.

We think the songs meaning have a different meaning than they may, when we really examine them.

Like asking, and expressing how I did earlier this week, to an “aunt”, a “thea” (thee-ah, Greek) that is a dear friend of my mom’s, in the Greeklish neighbourhood she lives in. I know, there is a lot of the Big Fat Greek Wedding imagery is going to be going through your mind. Rightfully so, there is a lot of it. I wish so often I had a perma-video camera going some of this stuff is just priceless so I write about it.

In our discussion, we spoke of a myriad of things, astrology, living with illness, the hardships of life, always such hard and life lesson discussions with the older Greek moms it seems, but there is great sunshine and love as well, not always somber in the depth, but can be, and we got into the discussion of how people will naturally choose to remember happier memories, and often, these will be associated with the happier people.

This does not mean we are not going to have bad memories, actually have some good parts within them, or contribute to the good in the learning of why bad must exist in an effort to not only magnify but more importantly allow people to realize. We will. But we will naturally gravitate away from reflecting on those as often as we may, when we think about the best friend, or the great girlfriend. Perhaps your spouse, or parent. A lost child.

If we have suffered a hardship in losing one of those types of relationships, at a time in our lives that is essentially the time to lose them, we will always remember those good times in the grief. It will be our selfish lust for the positive, and the emptiness that it occupies now alone, that causes us to feel the anguish.

My best friend, was tragically taken at a young age. In his late 20’s. A great man, a big part of my life and my learnings, and a frequent visitor to my biography at that time in my life, and even today. I miss the good laughs, and the genuine lust for life he had, and how he looked at it. Each day, a laugh, or a lesson is smirked at as I raise my fist to the sky, or smile and tell him to fuck off. More often than not, I look down and allude to him keeping the beer cold down there for us, and make sure mine is a redhead. He always knew I had the redheaded chick.

Every day.

My father, not the case. I tend to avoid thinking of him. When I do, it may be because of the reasons why I want to avoid going into the deep part of the river. It is cold, and shitty, and may have some predators that I am not aware of, or just do not want to deal with. Of course, there are times when you have to go.

Because you have to catch and kill that thing. It has been destroying the tranquility, it has caused the notes of the song to seem heavier, as opposed to a wonderful melody that may be the first dance. Just the two of you. You could only be on that beach, dancing with her, if you got to pass that part of the river. If you love her, you will pass it.

If you love your love yourself, your life, you will know that there is nothing you can do about that parts of the river. They are created by a greater being, or force, and you must accept that whatever that brings, you will adapt to it and follow the natural flow.

You will appreciate the lifecycle of the things we look at. We will buy a bag of unicorn shit to much on, hoping it will make life’s problems all seem solved and grand.

But we will not respect the statements of those that come to a wonderful place of comfort, and confidence in accepting the hardships.

Not as a welcome hardship, but as a reminder, a poke a prod to wake the fuck up and live. To realize that each day is a blessing, and that even if one chooses to spend those days writing, or discussing things that may seem so out of the ordinary for some, that it is still part of a larger system.

A larger whole, that in and of itself, creates their own holes.

Rabbit. Black. Fox. Ass.

Making of them, whatever you want.

Me?

Nope not miserable, not even going to try to pretend however, that I am filled with some kind of magical radiance either. It may be a good idea to try to project that, I hear it get’s some real “genuine” followers and friends on Twitter, or might get you a decent presentation at the peach festival in Phukit, Thailand.

Hey man, I am not judging.

Just commenting on another part of the system.

I refuse to pave my paradise with recycled dreams.

I will let it be.

 

*abide*

By

Brine Tsunami

Started the day off with some heavy writing, for myself.

Why not share. It reflects me, I do not have to be a programmed hologram.

I am getting a little “frustrated” by the Twitter game, and there will likely be a distinct brine tsunami that is seen in the coming days for sure.

The concept has been explained before in my posts, and I am going to elaborate on it a little more, as what tends to happen, it appears in life as in bytes, we see the right in the eyes only at the last moment, and of it. That is to say, we go from the most recent of things, they tend to be the most present and most important, and we track back from there. Like our lives, and that is the point we start from.

Living.

Being able to say, that we survived the challenge of a death, and living in the life that is defined by that moment. It is that moment that is the most, if not all, that you are living for right?

I am very much aware of the world that I live in, and quite frankly, not sure of what the world is that you choose to live in. The words that I write, the tales that I tell, are real and my own, and are shared as only snippets that somehow have fallen on a floor that you are looking at. But the floor is a giant cloud of light, like a wave of sorts, something that seems like it has no purpose, and only rage and fury, and seeks to wrestle from you the very thing you want to hold, and profess to want to hold, but do not live.

Your life, in your world, now.

In the world of this raging, and just wild brine tsunami, this ignorant and stupid wave of rants, and random links, there is some logic you just may not be able to see it. It is impossible to see it. A dandy, true man? Perhaps, if the eyes are open.

The empirical miracles prevent it. That is the simple truth. You can not hold the numbers in any universe, unless it is contained by the parameters of what you will.

In the case of others, what is willed upon them, and they willingly still, accept the hope.

The brine tsunami is not even aware of whether you can see it or not, it is not even aware of the purpose that it brings to the death of all that fall under it, or the waste that follows its trail.

It simply is, and does not apologize for it.

That is why you stare at them, wondering, why it came here, and how you could not have avoided the

Fuck, I am a “retired” young professional, and trying to get some of my shit shifted from on paper, combined with the massive data side, and share a truly fucking wild story, and write, but not to be read so much as to be taught – but feeling like more and more of the Twitter shit I am dealing with, appears to be…what?

Another great pun, or line?

Comedic genius?

What the fuck – is this high school?

I am aware, unlike the aforementioned brine tsunami, that given the content and demographics of the site, there are a huge variety of “species” that populate that beach, and most of them have a corporate interest, or are of a younger generation, that may find my longer pieces, or my style an annoyance, or rambling, dis-jointed.

Does not matter, this is part of what makes the whole of the tsunami, what is. In this case, you have not paid, or been “charged” anything to be here, and most certainly you have your own free will and volition, of course, unless you are too fucking daft to consider that you do and have to follow the “leader” of a different idiom.

Leave, and I don’t mean this just in the 140-character context; I mean it in the self-aware presence of being. Leave that shit behind, and trust me, I have no high school issues, and those and more, are credentials I am not called to provide right now to anyone, let alone some anonymous seaweed, it not even having any other purpose than that of to clean or to feed.

Service of some sort, the same thing all living things have.

What is alive?

The great public broadcasting station question all mankind seeks to answer with their generous donations.

These will, sooner rather than later, intersect with the other parts of the world, and there will be a tsunami, at least from my position, I can appreciate it may be considered something else, or the composition of the water may be something else, but the J-team and the gulch exist, as does the high ground.

Donations that one can align to the likes of those folks in the masses of the stands, at the sporting events, that somehow you can spot wearing the “I am with stupid” tee-shirts, and yet they are quite content in the dark humor of the child beside them, by most people’s accounts considered disabled, or challenged, dare I use the obvious word “retarded”.

Easier to say this joke with a fetaChop, but it is not a joke.

The arrow is not pointing at the child or the person that is blessed with an entirely different set of gifts from God, or the Universe if you choose to accept a different point of view, in fact I certainly do, I believe the “retard” is “this-abled“. It is us, that are stupid, and misinformed about what the “this” represents in the able. Life is just as beautiful, in another mind, and another time, because beauty exists, and it is everywhere, even in that mind we so easily toss around like a definition.

Dare I even say, it is a beautiful thing also to see the arrow pointing to the greasy fat pig, of a degenerate beside them, who chooses his ignorance, and for a lack of interest in wanting to digress into that foray, let’s just say he is a gross specimen of humanity. It is a beautiful thing to see this.

Like a double rainbow moment, when you realize the heavens and the skies and all of the universe has conspired to provide you with this glorious moment, amongst all of the madness, and you get to see the arrow pointed left, the child on the right, and the prism in the middle casting the Pink Floyd album cover most people would relate to, and few will recognize as a clever pun of having to re-fraction, because the right fractions were not accomplished in the first fractions, and it is only this action, that allows it all to be.

This moment.

So, my point…life is grand, if we just look at it differently.

Even in that moment, when the asshole swine sees the wave in front of him, I wonder if he thinks he is alive, or is busy considering the last moments before he tastes the brine.

The taste will be different for one that needs the brine, to cool them, to allow them to live and breath, or they are another, that despises it, and sees it as a bitter taste, a masking of a wave they care to avoid.

Or can’t.

What is seen, and said, can not be unseen, and I do not suggest that it is required to be. It should be embraced for it is, because that is, and resides in what the moment of now was. You can not change it, you can change your reaction to it today, and change the reactions of others and yourself at the time that was then, as you recognize them now, but you can not alter the physical wave. It is, and will be, whatever it is.

Much like your choice to run to, or away from it.

You can’t run from your past. It is what makes you, and there is no shame in you. A former serving USMC veteran did what had to be done to make the world, his world and the freedom he fought for, right and of a higher fidelity, a hi fidelus, if you will.

He respects the freedom one has to challenge the reason the war pigs culled machinations, but he stands just as tall today and forever, never leaving semper fi, like you never leave your skin until you die.

He stands, in front of any tsunami, known or presumed, and humbly smiles.

Committed to his life, to his purpose, to his stand seeking nothing more than the blessings of health, happiness and prosperity.

In that order, you are the richest man in the world today, as you stand there, in a customary humble bow, a dried, and haggard piece of cheese. presenting a guitar pick made of prehistoric, fossilized bacon.

Smile.

Do not look away.

*spark*

It is a beautiful sight, life is beautiful.

Semper feta fuckin’ fi.
I.

*abide*