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


Committed. Abide.

Just another day, and to be sure, it is.

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.
Forever, ok?

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.
I will.

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.


Oh, tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you Tomorrow.

You know, just a day away.




Help, My Snowman’s Burning Down (1964, Carson Davidson)

An image of the world, as advertised.

The soundtrack is your own mind man, woman, or child.

Enable it.

Talk to the meece, mais oui?



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.




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.

*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.



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.

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?


“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.



Shweaty balls promoting dolphin murders.

Want to feel like you are a kid again?  Connect with cool pen pals. The difference these days is syntax, so for brevity think ePals©. Yes, it kind of sounds like a a foot lotion, or some kind of cream for removing deep frostbite at the heights of exploration -which is why this episode of Kilimanjaro Executive, sponsored by Viagara©  and ePals© – helping all men in their mid-life prove they can still get it up, no matter how cold it is. This weeks warrior, now unemployed star of 30 Rock, Pete Schweaty, proves his balls can be enjoyed anywhere, at any temperature.


fetaman, iFeta, fetaChops, brinesanity, abide, cerebral anarchism

This story was broken by the Editor at CNN that had won the competition, to select the stories for the evening. But if you click this pick, after the opening click of course above the picture from the sponsors (sic). So thus indeed, begins the story of how we discovered Horace Redgrave, dolphin “puncher”. Sick, sick monkeys out there.

@CNN, good old Anderson Cooper and his crack team of 360°, which can come full circle form such great shows or pieces that question the 3 generations of prison camps in North Korea, and how amazing the human condition is, and then go right to the other spectrum with talking about the gruesome, horrible, incredible questions of the recent increase of several dolphins that have washed on shore in recent months. In fact he states, as he is about to show us this brilliant reporter selected to cover this massive news, global news, that in the last year as many as 10, yes, 10 of these large fish found shot, sliced open, or mutilated.

We hear and see Officer Leo Degeorge, of the Mississippi Department of Marine Resources, tell us how these disturbing boardings of vessels work, actually having to board the pirate boats of the Mississippi, looking for the murderers. Ed Lavandera was looking for answers damn it, and he was looking to find out, how between January-November of 2012, 7 slain dolphins have washed ashore.

Now, we are told, two more have washed ashore in the last two months, and amazingly, a third head of one. But now I begin to get confused, does this mean they cannot even claim a third dolphin? Or are they saying they are, because I would have to disagree. When I was young, just a wee curd, we learned real math, and you round down. I mean, either in size, or weight, the head of a dolphin is not 50% of the mass, so yeah, stay with 9 CNN. Seriously, your credibility and all.

We are told, by Ed at this point that the OTIC (the One Thing In Common technique of questioning he had learned at the Bora Bora CNN Forensic Reporting – CSI* Retreat, code named for the cocktail Cyber Smoke) is that all of the dolphins, or parts there of, have washed along the shores of this big chunk of land that water smashes into, around which a fuck load of dolphins swim. But they are being mutilated, all signs point to intentional killing and some kind of perversion, or slaughter.

Investigating all of this, providing feedback to an entire federal commission known as NOAA (the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) is Moby Solangi, Ph.D. of the IMMC (Institute for Marine Mammal Studies) an organization as impressive and powerful as it’s name suggests. I mean look at that website, seriously – this is prime time shit folks. Right there for the masses to suck on the tit of intelligence, come get your milk, daddy is home.

Ok, so let’s stay on focus here, this one guy, Moby right, reports to the public it is “deranged, senseless and repugnant”.

Pictures “too graphic” to show. Big news. Wow. How could one individual, hold on there captain Ouija squid, is a Ouija squid a mammal? Eh? But, ok, you can predict it was one person, let’s use the ubiquitous (for the folks that believe that a value meal has nutrition, that is like an all in one value meal, that is less than $3.29, with taxes in, and will meet all of your nutritional requirements according to the Federal Reserve People’s Drive Thru Information Centre for the Study of Fat Mammals who may or may not Have Bull Balls Dangling on Truck Hitches) he, no woman would do this after all, must be stopped. We can not tolerate this.

The federal investigators, the teams that had examined the other incidents, ruled that it was not some deranged killer, that they were not connected, but somehow the findings may have changed. The findings of the powerful scientific teams, may have cause for suspicion, but they can only report the facts.

But although the dolphins died, could they not have been mercy killings? I am not one to condone cruelty to animals in any regard, and if we had some kind of grainy footage of some kind of global video camera, to make sure this perversion would never occur, I am sure mankind would give up freedom to be able to know that this kind of travesty would never exist.

The dolphins, this glorious fish, that swim around the boat – this beautiful boat on patrol – the friends of all the people on this glorious island that could double as a family get away, or an exclusive jaunt into the wet, hot, well trimmed bushes swaying in the wind moments that two peers may share together…this place where all the islanders are asking about how and what could be happening to all their dolphin friends – it is a mysterious place.

You can barely hear the end of the clip, as it fades into the distance with the murmurs of the olives, speaking and greeting each other for the afternoon tea. Yes, these islands care, and before they have their marTini (yes, they are clever with words, and you will never notice the capital T in their accent, unless you are cultured enough to do so) the barrier island philanthropists ensure their staff have properly trained even the olives for the cordial ritual of gin bukkake.

It is only proper.

This world is fucked.

Humans dying, families hungry – but headless dolphins. Well played CNN, well fucking played – wow, some things just make you say, are you kidding me, it was like a 5 minute story, and some kind of major issue. Why would someone do this, this “predator” – are you fucking serious. Sometimes, you just have to realize that CNN is just as fucked as a good Twitter account. All of your news is like some kind of mad array of tweets, some good, and many bad, with different lengths, but the credibility of one statement, can crush all that you have worked for.

On the other hand, if you have some laughs, and realize that yes, the entire above is a play on an feta-ized type of story, or flash humour, and references how ironic it is that we are watching and caring about this, when the economic fate of the world is wrestled over by large debt clocks, missiles that can now actually cross the sea (*as opposed to the launch in 1969, so grand and never repeated, it happened, I am sure or it…) and man kind is falling to a level where we regard the life of a dolphin, and the mysterious “murders”, so troubling, more important than the 52 killings of humans, back in March, 2012 in Chicago where the violence was more than twice as many as died in the previous March. For the first three months of the year, the number of deaths shot up by 60 percent, raising fears that authorities were losing control of some gang-dominated areas.

So we have 52 people, in one month, die. Killed, not accidents, not some kind of heart attacks, or vicious cigarette harpoons to the fucking lungs – nope. Pure, calculated, knowing, cold blooded murder and of people. Living breathing, people, who were only victims of one crime.

Being born in a crazy fucking place. In some circumstance, and maybe just not even knowing, that they too are like animals. To be killed, like the generals and the masses.

I am not here to make a political statement on the wars, or the killing overseas for the sake of oil and energy, and power. Fuck, I am not some kind of crazy militant that wants to engage in the war that the Coca-cola drinking anarchists quench their rebel yells with, nor am I willing to comment on the validity of a god, one greater than the other.

But I am going to say, that no matter what you believe, and how you feel, and where your priorities lay, disguised, known or not.

No fucking way you can argue dolphins deaths, is anywhere near as important of the other millions, if not billions of other stories that should go into the big power ball/bingo drum in the sky, with a free chance to get the hairdryer as consolation, if you lose, but at least one of those other more important balls has to come out.

Just jingle some shiny keys, and watch them come running.



Note: for all researchers wishing to further identify, or understand the motives behind a genuine ape, that claims to see no, hear no, and speak no evil, but writes well – you be the judge. Horace Redgrave can be found here.


Diplo 0: Abides Rocky Range

The art of the writer has changed into a new form, and I believe, in that, lays great opportunity for wealth, and for prosperity – both in a financial sense of little consequence to some but most important for others, and a physical sense of the larger proportionate share of who we are.

The writer, that will be most relevant, I believe, is the one that can continue to separate a distinct connection with their peers, or readers, yes there can be a difference, and take some of that writing, some of that exchange of ideas, and create a new direction.

Each day, as these gulch monks walk with me, share a laugh, and a kinship – each day, some of the anonymous you will appear in posts, and they will smile knowing it came from some of the words we had shared. They will make them know, they matter. In whatever sense that may be, and that is a gift the whole world could do with, and making it a better place. Simply sharing with people that matter, and took the time, to make a small difference, and not just walk on by without sharing that smile, with the stranger, who was really kind enough to look you in the eye, and not question who or what you are, look like, or do – they knew, as a good human, and just one, they were true to the essence of abide.

This smile, in case it was not as clear a reference in Brine Tsunami as it could have been, is not some bullshit star. I am not looking for mere stars as the texture to my canvas.

So I will paint something else, and wait for other’s to join me, and share theirs. An artist, a writer, a craftsman, a farmer, a businessman, a god – they all do these things for one thing or another, and they all wish to see, and admire similar works.

How the fuck, can you claim to have a body of work as a photographer, and have no pictures?

How can you write, when you have to spell check the 6 vowels, sometimes 8?

How can you expect to get to appreciate, or interact with anyone, for whatever the purpose, without some kind of exchange at the announced consecutions?

I am not creating my gulch to purge myself of the guilt for all my shames or transgressions as a business sniper, or a man that crushed lives. The art of war is now a BOD mandate, and a clausal battalion, but they entered the arena to do battle, as did I, and those times I was bloodied and beaten, and just barely walking – I accepted, as should they. These battles have also revolved around the lies and the hate from family, a cancer of another kind that had grown and grown, until I had no choice.

To stay alive, as myself, I had to become who I was, and if that meant, no longer tolerating abusive, truly sociopathic circumstances or standing in the regard these people physically abused another, or themselves – then I was going to have to walk away.

It have my own counter-balance to the anger and the hurt that comes from fighting a cancer. It is not to prove myself the victor of killing the very thing that has given me this love and respect for life.

It is because, I am what I am.

A simple man, with a genuine desire to make a difference in the gulch, and it may sound like some kind of odd reflection, and I will admit, even a mere decade ago, I would have laughed at my claim to befriending people on the internet, not being able to see them live.

Having to trust they are, who they are.

Some will express it as a “Tom Sawyer” side, and the way they express it can indeed be grand, or a choice of very simple, and flowing words used – creating sound. Indeed, very sounds to drown out the tides of the daily seize. To create an “escape” of the world we choose to play in, and I know that many others will.

It can be strange how life can throw a curve ball at you.

As an example, there was a Tuesday that two different friends would meet. An interesting tale of the young man, a God fearing and genuine good person, who decided at almost the exact second that an older professional abider, who provided a 6 month “pro” membership was in order. He generously gifted a membership to the Fetaman, feeling a need to have me enjoy the process more, and as he said “just a gut feeling, you are going places.” If not for this event, I may not have been able to tolerate the “designed” way Twitter was meant to be experienced, and could have left.

I have not, his consultation, both as a young peer, and as a younger generational technical confidence man, has been quite a fascinating experience. I will be the first to admit, there are times, I consider some of his “lingo” perhaps what others consider of mine. I do the natural thing, and have to pass on trying to “tweet this for the sake of tweeting it”, it would not be right for me to just be pressing the buttons and not be able to say I appreciate the flow of the timeline/bit text on the pages.

If not for this young man’s insight on some things, and his ability to remind me of my life’s lessons and teachings to date. Do not be annoyed if someone does not get it, it does not mean they will not appreciate all the other stuff that they may, if they want.

It reminded me of my grandfather’s words I have alluded to in here.

You can never turn a donkey into a racehorse.

Embrace the assholes, the donkeys. It makes it more of an experience, and enhances it. If you can open up your eyes, and see what this place is supposed to be. It is whatever you want to make it.

Hollow stars, are just tissue paper trunks that decorate a stage before they are tossed aside.

That pageant has passed.

There is no escape for me.

I am more present in my life, than I have ever been. I do not welcome anything, other than what is of my own regard and making.

I will help, but I will not provide.
I will walk, but I shall not carry.
I will sing, but only to those who abide.
I will purpose, to not grow weary.
I will honor, a word’s intent.
I will map, a gulch to find.
I will, what is sent.
I feta, mind.



Citizenship in a Gulch

Citizenship in a Republic. Theodore Roosevelt in 1910.

This man spoke about courage skill tenacity, the obligations of a man within a state of nature, and being able to understand that the dust, the sweat and blood – are the echoes of an effective natural existence, fighting to accomplish what one wants.

Representing a complete and total disdain for the way that society may have begun to think about ones obligations of acting within a republic, the democracy, the general establishment of society that represented many, many things a hundred years ago. The impact and the changes to the way that men and women react, understand, communicate, transmit and effectively fight within this arena that we choose to be in.

When we consider the concepts of ‘you are responsible for the happiness’, what is will unequivocally be what is according to your mindset.

The mind is a very dangerous beast if it is left untamed and unchecked; unsupported within the very confines of an arena the parameters that you set for controlling it. Our mind body and soul represent three different distinct parts of humans, and what we believe we’ve come into the earth with and what we leave this earth with. There are two doors in this life; one we come into alone, and another we leave alone. As a result, it’s not about the one who points out that the other has stumbled or done wrong and professes through exclamation to be a judge of those deeds that could have been done better.

It is most certainly not about the man who actually just does nothing but spectate and take joy from some of the misery that could be existing within this arena.

It’s a torment and a challenge, the overcoming of it because of your will and purpose, and what you want to do, that is what it is about. The quest for greatness, of your own creation and action.

People have two fundamental drivers, that is either to seek pleasure or to avoid pain, and the avoidance of pain seems to be the greater part of that. This is why watching another go through pain and struggle to accomplish things that you may agree on, makes them a hero. If they seem to accomplish it, despite their struggle, you admiration becomes the essence of high regard. You have avoided the pain, and seen another gain, so you have a synthetic role, a synthetic essence, in this gain. Invested of sorts, and reaping some rewards. Right?

No? You don’t think that it’s an essence that’s important or you think that it fastidious, and you are going to laugh and relish the challenges that are in the arena.

You can laugh, but I would beg to differ, and argue that the importance of the citizenship in the arena concept and the credit does belong to the man who actually is in the arena.

The man who is marred by dust and sweat and blood who strives valiantly knowing that he is going to come up short again and again. Knowing there is no effort without error and shortcomings or without learning.

That man, deserves more than just a “don’t try” reference that has been warmed over by the Nike ‘just do it!’ campaign. Or the mediawaved form “they will tell you over and over again, that you can’t do it” another popcorn bag famous Nike ad slogan, but you will just do it because you are the one who is actually going to strive to do the deeds, you are going to know the great enthusiasm and the devotion that it takes to get there. You are going to define and understand what that worthy cause is that you are undertaking and you are going to be the one and the only one that truly knows.

Others might best know of those that are around to select the knowing of the best, but you are the one that ultimately knows that the triumph of high achievement has nothing worse in it than failure, which is one of the greatest things a man can accomplish, knowing that he is going to fail while daring greatly, while doing things that are so extra ordinary that his place shall never be with the motherfucking pieces of shit that represent the cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.

That is the probably one of the saddest things one can imagine – people not having those experiences, not being able to see the fine difference and the big difference in the way that they live their lives. In fact, how they choose to live the life.

James Allan wrote the classic book back in the 1800’s, a favourite of mine for 15+ years, and I have read it a number of times. It is a  small volume about being aware, a meditation of sorts and a reflection of the understanding and experience of your self.

It deals with such things as thought and character and circumstance and how you’re dealing with those circumstances and what the differences are on how that dealing with the circumstance reflects in your health. In “As a Man Thinketh”, Allan talks about men and women being about the virtue of the thoughts that they choose and encourage. They are the makers of themselves.

As you think, so your heart shall be directed.

When you sit in the room alone in the dark talking to yourself people might think that you are crazy. People might say “wow that’s pretty strange, what odd behavior, how obscure.” Because the number of those people is greater than the number that would do that, or that typically find solace or escape or a place, a happy place if you will, a personal arena to struggle within for their own sake, the one’s that do that are considered odd, strange or eccentric.

They don’t see it as such however, because they exist in that space, the person that does that in the dark – typing on keys and reflecting on things that can be shared and passed along to other people, not because they are planned or they represent certain parts of research where you are reading off cue cards, no, they are natural, they are part of how and who you are – they have shaped you.

Nobody can replicate or duplicate who you are. You choose to make who that person is. Your act is the blossoming of a thought. The joy or the suffering of whatever the fruit is that you bring out, the man will garner and reap what is sown in the sweet and bitter fields.

Not all fruit is sweet, not all vegetables are bitter, not all of the wafty scent of shit appeals to everybody. A good wet field of shit on a hot summer day produces a smile that only a farmer could love. That does not make that smile irrelevant, nor does it make that smell perfume, it all is a function of the relevance of where you are in your life and what you are doing to impact that to make it different. You are going to go through that arena.

As a man focuses on a seed that is germinated into the mind, the garden represents your mind as a fertile soil, so, any foul seed  like a tumor in the brain, could get to a point where that tumor is about to explode, because it has manifested itself, by being thought of, as something in the garden. The pop, a crack like a seed, thus beginning to grow.

The cracking of that has got to be a painful process, the outer layers break, rupturing and piercing, and from within, that great deal of pain becomes this enormous new part of growth. This new life, again, coming from what was nothing, before it was even a seed.

I watched a show the other week about some black woman Iyanla, on the Oprah Winfrey network, I am not a big fan never watched a full episode in my life but this Iyanla woman had an episode called “Fix Your Life” and a big 300 woman audience.  I had been given a call and told to “watch it now” – don’t ask please – and she was talking about how do women expect to be treated this way, and what are we doing that is really pushing away the people in our lives as opposed to engulfing them when we want these open relationships.

Talk about Robert Fucking Di Niro, and I know it will be impossible to have some of the boys appreciate what I am trying to say, but being able to articulate it with a bunch of the words so I don’t get cut off, and so that they can read it and see it in its entirety, that becomes a moment in time, and humour in and of itself.

Stop fucking laughing, yeah, I am making a baked tangent leap of faith back to this Iyanla woman. She’s older, bigger, not exactly “beautiful” and or “my type” by many stretches of other’s imagination, but I can tell you, from my perspective, I just fell in love with this woman’s IQ.

Her confidence, her humour, and her fight in the arena, as a single, older black woman that has had challenges with men and dating, she spoke wonderfully, and powerfully as she talked about the concept of “intimacy” being similar to the words “into-me-see.” Because intimacy doesn’t represent a loving intimacy just between lovers here as were talking about it, but it also represents how you deal with the world and those around you. These were powerful words, regardless from who they came, or what their story was. She may be a great performer, or she may have just lived a life that has blessed her with the truth, and the integrity of character to walk tall.

Truth is a spine breaker, or a life maker. Can’t walk tall without a straight, and true spine.

You are reflecting what is within you, and so you have to remove what issues are in you and address those shortcomings, those judgments. You have to change what goes into the garden, to get what come’s out of it. Fantastic stuff, and as I begun to write this, and allowed my thoughts to take me on this journey, I would have never assumed my journey would take me to including Roosevelt, Allan and Iyanla.

Well played Fetaman, well played. You urban metrocheesexual.

Wisdom of the ages, life as one big remix, it has all been said before – does not mean that new way of expressing old messages is not going to yield new insight. Experiences and expressions are like tiny books that you can share with others, and with each reading, there will be more you can see, or consider.

One example of translating this old wisdom, into modern lore, was an exercise where she asked a woman from the audience to stand in front of her cameraman, and she said “hey just stand in front of this guy, and pretend he’s the best man you have ever met in your life. This is the woman that you want to marry,” she said to the camera man as the audience chuckled. She had me in her spell, and I immediately allowed my mind to hear “hey, just stand in front of this woman, and pretend she’s the best woman you have ever met in your life.”

This is how I perceived her to say it, even though this was a woman talking to another woman about a relationship with a man, I turned it into my experiences with former loves, and one in particular.

What are the things that are causing you to have issues with her? She rhymes off three things will this man be there for me will he trust me will he be faithful, does he love me for who I am?

Whatever that all was exactly, it doesn’t matter, Iyanla just had her step back. She asked more questions, and more “definitions” or “road blocks to acknowledging anything great could happen” cause this woman to step back, and back. She finally stepped back so far that she almost fell off the stage. Beautiful woman, really beauty attractive but just fucking strange and dark, I didn’t find her loving. In fact, I found her frightening as a person, let alone as a man.

If I could have a date with either of those two, it would be Iyanla in a heartbeat. Sexually it was the one she had on the stage, just this gorgeous specimen of a woman would say the typical moron. Well, that would confirm why we can label him as a self inflicted, cerebral gunshot to the cranium logicus. This “sexual specimen”, had gone through 129 dating profiles of men and accepted a second date with one. That has got to be a sign of some other things, and I can tell you, the physical side of attraction can be very easily accommodated by a mature self, but a mature self can never tolerate an ignorant or weak mind. It can love one, if that has been an act of God, if the universe has brought a challenge to another human, that love will be pure. But to love, be attracted to, or even want to aid an ignorant or weak minded person of their own making, is a skill set I find very difficult to hone.

Choice. All about choice, and where you want to be in your arena. All about being aware of what you are putting into the garden, and why you are getting out what you do. In today’s world, there is a lot of add water and mix, press button and heat intelligence, but it will never replace the benefits, and the nutrients that come from the natural, hand worked, pride taken, intent given, garden. Ever.

Some of my ramblings on what it’s like to be a plant in the garden, or some diversions about what it’s like to be the man in the arena- fighting for what it is that you believe in, and being aware of what it is you believe in.

Knowing that the seeds that you plant in your mind are going to be reaped, sown and toiled upon, in fertile soil and nutrition, all in an order, that has it grow. Having sunshine and water, food and minerals in the soil, all tools that provide stability for the plant to grow. This tree of life that sprouts, and will be what it is within us, not so different from the tools and the weapons used by the man in the arena, to provide for his own reward. A life.

The garden, the arena, they are both one and the same. Of a sort, I would say, in another way, I would defer to other points but for now, I can extend a final thought, if you will indulge me with but a fragment more of your attention.

The thoughts in the mind that made us who we are, and if those thoughts encompass a belief you can take all of the ingredients you need to make the perfect garden, or the right items needed to win in the arena, that you have all of the critical elements, you should be able to just make anything happen, you are wrong.

One could argue, that it would make sense for someone to take all of the water and sunshine that a seed may require to grow throughout its lifetime, and just give it to it all at once. With all this water and sunshine and food, would that seedling grow into a tree immediately?

The intelligent child knows this, and most certainly an aged adult would know that it would not, in fact we know that we would probably kill it, we would mar it with blood and sweat and tears.

It would not know victory; its defeat would be the very demise of its ability to live and to thrive, simply because you have tried to help.

No, you can’t do that, or you should not, as the most important part of living and growing and of thinking like a man does, being in this arena, is understanding a constant that none of us can really control, so much as we can mitigate, partitioning a proactive way. It is like following a tide, or a current, understanding where that tides is going to take you and letting it take you there.

Things happen for a reason and they always happen over a span of time. What those reasons are will not be influenced by time, so much as constrained by it, and your actions.

Time is the one most important critical foundation to building of that tower of Babel, on your own.

I have changed my tower. It is now an Abide Pirgo, my own homage to the White Tower of Thessaloniki. It is a tower fortified with my own blood, sweat and tears, binding an abide that no matter what it is that you do it the foundation of it, the establishment and engulfment of the very essence of this tower in of itself, is the hole that none can penetrate, and in the case of many, a hole they can not construct, and if they could, a whole they would likely not be able to get out of.

This is time.

The most precious critical aspect of how you are undertaking your life, whether you are taking advantage of time or you waste it.

It remains the most critical constant in all things living. Without it, there is no life.

Life is to be lived and enjoyed and shared. Find empathy for those men and women in the arena, working the productive and shared gardens, understanding them for who they are, and embracing that as a loving attitude.

An actual attitude, a “love” that is an extent of what you can do for yourself, and if you can do that, and are interested, you can do that right across the fields, for everyone, in the gulch.

I would, and do. In my way, on my way.

I am just simple man, made of cheese, doing.



Where is the gulch?

This is Fetaman Paraphrasing a Paraphrase

If you don’t think the entire world is completely fucked, you’re just not paying attention. It’s a function of you being present, or just deciding to stick your head in the ass of a comformity, it’s pretty fuqtarded out there, and until we realize why things are so out of hand, and what our responsibilities and rights are, and embrace them for what they really are, I can pretty much assure you the mushroom trips you took in the fraternity are going to seem pretty tame in comparison to what you are doing in that hut, in a fetal position, waiting for the next episode of Oprah to cure what ails you. it’s only going to get worse.

Unless it is the trip you signed up for
Light you way.

Sober or not.

Rocks don’t have morality because they’re not alive, it is not possible for a rock to have such parameters, let alone have learned them from a self-proclaimed professor, a tree. Plants can’t be criminals because they can’t make choices, and that would include not being able to choose to teach, or write, or just grow branches. They just are, trees.

‘Right’ and ‘wrong’ describe choices, which are made based on instincts and communicated ideals from a collective that you have made a fundamental choice to subscribe to. It is similar to choosing whether to live or to not live. Some of us are brothers (*sisters), and since bro’s are the smartest fucking things in the world, we survive by using our brains. When bro’s think, they live, and they find happiness. It is a tough concept, this thinking, and now you are telling me I have to think to be happy? Sorry you may be too fuckin’ dense to even understand this basic principle but it is the truth.

Rational people are happy people, which is why free trade is so the elixir of the Universe, and I am not going to get into the discussion on creation or a large scientific set of facts argued by some of my brothers and sisters. I am going to clarify that the beauty of the simplicity is that this free trade lets two thinking people make a deal, and trade what they have for what they want, on their own, with their free will, based on value and benefits exchanged for the trade. Simple economics. Guess who comes out ahead when two bro’s trade? Both. Otherwise, they just wouldn’t trade.

Is this your dream?

If you are able to keep up with me, no, I am not a mind reader. I am just your brother. I know that you are thinking what any wise person would. Why would I sacrifice something, whether this be killing something you need to in order to appease the Gods, or to provide something you would rather keep, because it is cherished and desired, or at least required to impress the people you do not like, with the things you have, but may not necessarily truly desire, but it is still a wanton desire, and fuck, it is yours damn it. I mean, ‘sacrifice’ is fucking stupid, and no thinking being would do it.

What is a challenge, is that I am hearing all of these other voices, trying to drown out my own, as they pester my intellect with affirming to me over and over again, on the silicon boxes and melted glass vision monitors, it’s ‘right’ to give up what I have so someone else can get what they want. It is their right, to have this right.

If it’s ‘right’ that I take less, why is it ‘right’ that they get more? Because I earned it and they didn’t? Does that strike no one else as completely fucked? Why the hell am I evil because I have things and they don’t? NEWSFLASH: I earned my shit. Before I could have things, I had to make things; if they don’t have anything valuable, it’s because they don’t make anything valuable, which falls right over here into what I like to call the “Don’t’ Make Other People’s Problem My Problem” column.

Ancient parables told us of the wise man thinking about dinner before he is hungry, and the dumb animals doing nothing all day but to forage for the hibernation of a winter, and the sleep that comes after too much turkey and a boring college bowl game. He earned that sleep, but I guess he does not deserve that food he has stored. Oh, it is not food? It is actual fat, and excess on his body. Well, that is ok, I am sure there are some Shylock’s out there willing to try to “work” at stealing some of the earnings in his rump while he is sleeping.

But somehow Mother Nature, a filthy capitalist and “natural libertarian” that is considering a fuqtarded tea party, has made the workers victims of capitalism? She has falsely represented that the fruits and the tending of the garden are to be worked and the rewards harvested from your effort and purpose. Seriously? You mean I can not simply go and steal those fruits? Oh yeah, well, maybe the conditions of work are not good. Maybe, we should strike against Mother Nature.

Go ahead, if you think that working conditions suck that much, then just… stop working. There is no other class of human. We all work, for what we want, and what we get is a fair trade of what we have done, who we are, and how we abide.

If you genuinely believe you are contributing more than you’re getting, then your demands for more will be answered, when you have proven that is the case, and the free trade you have for your product, service, love, laughter, alliance – whatever the fuck that is, is accepted. Otherwise, stop fucking whining and do something about it. I can assure you, that if you are not able to simply do the kind of providing a bartered and exchanged desire or benefit in some capacity to another, because they don’t “get” it, well, it is likely because they can “get” to a place of such stupidity from where they stand.

This battle call “class disparity” is bullshit. In the state of nature, there will be taller trees, and fiercer predators that eat less than they can kill. So they just eat longer, or grow taller. In nature, there is no such thing as class conflict, not when everyone is naturally rational. Unfortunately, nature can manifest some pretty fucking stupid hyena’s that believe they are worker hyena’s, and they laugh at the benefits they receive, denying they are more than anyone else’s. So then rational, forms an opinion on the guilt that is felt for inventing disease-free crops that lower the “cost” of “food”, or providing engines that hyena’s could use to cheaply deliver food across the country, on infrastructure and with technology that just appeared with magical fairy dust, and unicorn battalions that made sure that water was safe to drink, and the power stayed on with the help of non-union pixies that just want to be kind. Why yes, I would like to get paid nothing, and have my freedom and natural choice raped for the benefit of saving you $50. It goes without saying, that I also apologize greatly for actually thinking I should enjoy some of the benefits and gifts that come from getting more food, and improving the quality of life.

You are right, I should just get “locked” away, in a place where only other’s like me dwell.

The entire world judges me by a morality the demands my guilt in exchange for the ability to think and know, create and trade, what the machine demands. What Orwell would have defined as the Big Brother principle, and it also claims that my soul and my body are incompatible, and that I can only find comfort by learning what the machine wants me to learn. To conform to the killing of my body, by their choice and my own “choice”, to ‘liberate’ my soul, according to whatever the fuck it means for them. My body and mind, the fruits of all my efforts and being mean nothing. I must sacrifice my self, because death for something I do not believe in, but will cause a benefit to another is of the highest value.

Well my friends, the drug cocktail will only last as long as the red pill will allow. It might not make sense when you start to come down, but Pharma Inc., an affiliate of Big Brother Machinations LLC will ensure it lasts as long as it needs to. Me, I am taking the orange stroll, a natural and wise alternative. A more whole, idealistic approach to life, and what I am about to say may just blow your mind, but I don’t care, because this is the interwebs, and my broadcast is meant for me, and anyone that may find it.

The orange stroll doesn’t “last long” because it just is alive. It never “lasts” because the effect is infinite. It is the way that I walk, and the miles that I own. And on that walk, in this banished place, where only people like me think, and do, what we know is best for ourselves, and are men and women who appreciate and honor who we are, and the gifts we can exchange on the journey through our gulch – I smile. Knowing I “deserve” this.

So when things go wrong for the unthinking idiots, those that choose ignorance and stupidity by choice, rooted in a desperate expectation and show of force, or threat of violence greatest to have us pay off their debts just because we can – I say, please, go fuck yourself elsewhere, and before you do, feel free to leave a contribution in the fuck given jar above (*link coming soon, trust me) so we can help ourselves learn from the “retards” you reject from your society because of how they were born.

Being born this way does not make me stupid, or dumb. It makes me the holder of a gift from the universe, and we embrace differences like those in our hearts. In our gulch. Our way. In a spirit of abide. So any contributions you care to make, before you fuck off, or grow some intellect and testicles of Intent and join Rural Gulch Achievers.

You have made life hardest for the greatest contributors, the ones who make your life easier, and actually expect to be acknowledged, or thanked, and if not, at least to be able to enjoy what they have exchanged in fair trade. The more a brother or sister can make, the more you take, and I and my associates have united in declaring that our contribution to these ‘taxes’ doesn’t make us or me feel like I should stay here on the broadcast much longer.

Fuck your theft, and thieving ways. Fuck your lies, and your bullshit. To hell with standing by and allowing you to continue making it happen, unable to believe that anyone could really be that dumb? Well I was, and will no longer be. My words, my choice, my freedom to exist and be who, what, where, when, and how I want to be – I declare it again today, affirming my own choices in the ast, and today, as my own. So I stand here, as a piece of cheese, a proud man made of Feta…Fuck. Your. Noise. 

I am done being made to feel guilty, blamed and hated, because I make shit happen, and actually expect to have peers, and associates and <gasp> “friends” who believe making shit happen, makes the world go around. I am done being sacrificed, being a criminal, or an outcast, or an eccentric recluse that “parties” well more than I should, because all of you know how I live, and who and what I am.

You know what I am?  I am a guy, who knows a gal that built a thing that lets you fly through the sky in an air conditioned plane. Of course she’s rich, because flying is fucking awesome, and she is smart, and can sing opera, and has a great sense of humor, and is talented and people will pay her to do it. Just like my other friends helped us turn coal into furious steel vessels that people needed for more food, and more stuff.

Well, your world says “they” are evil, and I know that is not true. So I don’t want to live in your “world” anymore. I have made my choice, and own it each day. You will own your own choices here also, because with no thinking or cerebral sutra, it will only get worse.

When you’re ready for any of us to fix shit because you know we can, let us know. Just use the Abide signal in the skies, don’t worry where you point it, we have the technology to see it, and we will come.  As long as it is not during the Lebowski Toga party, because fuck, everyone looks forward to that month of festivities for the whole year.

“This is John Galt Speaking” is a famous speech delivered by the primary character in Ayn Rand‘s novel, Atlas Shrugged. It was a piece that was paraphrased by The Philosophy Bro, which is a great site, and he did a fantastic job of delivering the original summary, which you can review here. Sharing the link, is in an effort to recognize his effort, because I am never down with stealing people’s work and effort, and will always credit them with the inspiration, and original work, which facilitated a personal transcription of how I feel, today, because every day is a living one in which many of the ideals and principles form my way. Ayn Rand is one of my most beautiful women in my gulch, and because of her book, and the freedom of choice we all have, I have declared my free choice. Fetaman’s gulch, and abide…or not.



The Laughing Heart – Bukowski

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

*link to a www.culturalweekly.com, with a nice little summary on why Charles Bukowski is indeed an incredible inspiration, and writer. Don’t try. *humble bow*