Thursday dusk arrived slow

Don’t waste your time coz I already did!

Quick reviews of the gaps in our apps, human technology.


8 1/2

I disagree
with this headline, you’ll see.

Letter never sent, part 4

bTake what you need and leave the rest. 7:41 pm cool air finally as we wait on Chicago style pizza with onions so you choke!

Review of Door Dash (terrible name)

I don’t like that they ripped off their drivers (now I tip cash) and they got giant start up finance from Saudi Arabia, who should have been chastised for journalist death so that is bad. But. Their service is getting better, I hear the drivers are getting paid and they paired up with square cash which I love. The dash pass isn’t really worth it and I’ve had my food jacked on more than one occasion – literally given to anyone who says yes when driver said are you (name). Yeah, I’m Wanda… So I think they rank 3 after grub hub (better vitals less snafus) and Uber eats which is fast cheap and predictable. So door dash if you order frequently and can take advantage of their promos gets 4 out 5.

The Lies

We try to think of when they begun

Murray speaks. It’s

That time

The Lies We’ve been told

And other sob stories

Reid Freeman’s Birthday (Mon 15 12:00 AM – 11:59 PM)

Someone my father out the Kaibash on

Nowhere hear as

Intense as

I

What does to me

HEroic Poetry 

Acetaminophen screaming for attention

Off the shelf
   She was
straight out of biologically 

Contemptible 

with self-styrofoaming

 Eco-friendly 

packaging 

Eva, The blow up woman 

      by There’s Something about Earnest 
She was always a delight 

My good man,

Said Arthur of 

delta (phi) dawn 

    the blow up 

     Girlfriend 

who inadvertently got passed around 

like nobody’s business  
 

From the shores of kitschy koombaya 

to the morning after pill from Ralph’s 


          EVA bore. The emblem.

(lettered monogram to look like E-R-A )

“equal rights ass!” emblazoned across

the  made in China Badonkedonk 

 of a  plastic fantastic 

 mustang Sally 

 
In with the in-Crowd

   From Sigma Wink and a Nod

   to the Delta Phi Episolon Explosion

 

A regular 

Nobody 

at  St. Nate’s  palettes

    Covering for chaotic order 

    of secret societies 

    From the raging hormone set             


              Disturbed initiations leave indelible marks

                        No traces 

               


get a load of that broad 

She heard 

  • Don’t drink 
  • don’t smoke 
  • what do you do 

She’d been the goody-two-shoes, role played her brain transmogrified, pretended to be anyone she was NOT, behind darkness, just to survive, 

Everyone must accept one or face prison time. She had a “choice,” and after that anthrax shelter stint, she decided the Rutger Hauer lookalike would be best for her “needs” as an aging, not quite ailing, sometimes failing but rarely falling, just hurtling headlong trying to escape this dimension of nonsensical pain, needless suffering – as if there is an acceptable form, the need full suffering – oh fuck off maker, the great ether, send me your meteors!

I am but a woman 

entreating the sky 

to break open 

some mercy 

once in a while 



Abraham was a hologram. The woman’s perfect companion. 

We live in such Cyborg times what will become of love 

asked no one after awhile 

Once the last stranger had left 

the last  dreamer, dead.


But still

Beneath the skin

Resistance lives 

Beyond the caves of men 

The Bermuda triangle 

where Venus of Willendorf 

was found swirling 

in multidimensional flux 

I am the alpha 

Athe the omega 

I walk through 

The ballet 

Not dance but walk

So I can swim 

Swim 

away 

The last days of January

I came back to cottage # 43 to take a nap but instead polished off the Glenfiddich 17 (or possibly 12, I can’t recall because the bottle has already been taken to the recycling bin) and went through the box of cards I found in my father’s closet. You see, he is an amazing artist, despite having become a medical doctor because his own parents thought his dreams of becoming a wildlife manager were not going to provide him with enough God-almighty dollars, and so he has over 6,000 (at least) photographs loaded on his iMac which I have been wrestling with the past week to get his iPad set up so he can look at butterflies.

He perks up when he hears a birdsong and we tried to play the identify this song game but of course apple wanted someone’s credit card number for the free app, so I gave them mine which is always dubious as I can’t seem to live off the edge for more than a year or two at most (having decided to do exactly what my grandparents warned against–pursuing my first love, well actually more like third, and choosing a ‘career’ in film and television. (The first two are poetry and photography, with a hint of horses, the ocean and little creatures in there as sub-categories).

Back to the day at hand. My father keeps his room at 90 degrees or more. I am now wearing a t-shirt in Ohio after 8 inches of snow fell. This from a girl who does well in hot, humid climates, but loves snow because I never get to see it living in Los Angeles and now I guess I love snow because I guess you could call these pre-hot flashes for my pre-menopausal state, which I have self-diagnosed being too poor for even Obamacare.

My grammar and syntax are not up to par, and for that I apologize to all my English teachers and professors, but not to Bukowski, Henry Miller or T.S. Eliot, my favorite writers. This is all their fault.

That’s the worst-written preamble to a confession I’ve written in a while.

LET US GO THEN YOU AND I

I sit down to go through my dad’s cards that he has made (photographs of birds, butterflies and petroglyphs) because I want to send thank you cards to all my friends who have rallied to send me here to see him for what could or could not be our last time seeing each other in the physical realm. I love my dad for many reasons — not the least of which being he is actually my adopted father, and for some reason, we have always just ‘got’ one another from the watermelon seed spitting contests, to playing poker for M&Ms to today when he flipped off the nurse (who I ‘luckily’ met later and agreed) with a gesture I can replicate but not explain and we laughed the way that Walkers laugh. She is a bitch, this nurse. I have let her know with my body language and explanation of how I clean his urinals because they stink of piss.

I apologize in advance, retroactively and from afar, so bear with me, there’s a story here in this roasted chestnut and for those of you who say you don’t understand me, well yes, you could hire me an editor or just leave me the fuck alone.

I sit down on the ‘love seat’ in his cottage and start going through the box of cards (one thing that did not have blood on it from his ‘recent’ ambien-induced sleep-walking fete that took him into his closet and left him bloody–thanks Cleveland Clinic best heart doctors in the world jerk-offs for not caring about your patients, even the ones who were residents and interns at your esteemed medical establishment, and me, I was born there–go figure) — and I start looking at the cards and choosing which one goes to Ashley, and Val, and Virginia, and the lovely high school friends who have so kindly helped me in a time of need that I don’t like one bit — and I started to cry as I have been doing lately, and I am not a crier. I hate crying. I am the person you can cry to. I am the strong one. I am the one who has nothing to lose while you have everything, and I can always make you feel better (emotionally that is, let’s not go to that other place right now)…

Because — well I don’t know why, to tell you the truth. I am crying right now.

It’s like when I would drive down Kahuna Road on Kaua’i at a certain stage of my life and when I would hear “Rocky Raccoon” on my White Album maxell tape, I would start crying. ROCKY RACCOON? Yes, it used to make me cry when I would hit this one turn in the road where I could see the Pacific ocean just perfectly as I passed Kapaa High School.

My Dad’s current girlfriend (he left my mom after 38 years of marriage, our family pretty much imploded and with it any hope of me believing in marriage–I have remained UNMARRIED despite having common law status relationships with 2 men in my 49 years, who I ultimately don’t trust) told me that my father said to her — he wouldn’t do a thing differently in his life.

We’re like that–I never regret. I don’t believe in it.

Thank you for putting up with this stream of consciousness…

Now, I must wipe away those aggravating tears and prepare to meet the grandkids of a dear friend of my Dad’s who want to go into FILM as a profession. And you know what? I don’t discourage kids from that–I just try to save them some pain.

http://www.glenfiddich.com/us/

Double-edged swords

In any creative discipline, commercial success is a double-edged sword: On the one hand, it activates “the winner effect,” the well-documented psychological phenomenon wherein success breeds more success, or, as Michael Lewis put it, “commercial success makes [things easier], and it also creates pressure to be more of a commercial success”; on the other hand, it tips the scales of productivity and presence in an unfavorable direction, catalyzing the compulsion to produce yet more work in order to maintain the already-attained success and gain more, in the process withering the capacity to actually enjoy it.
http://bit.ly/WWKD_71

Pergamum

A Greek city now in Turkey where preparing sheepskins as parchment was developed as a technique for making paper, which is now in essence wordpress, a virtual sheepskin, which evokes other things I realize and I don’t have a comment on that right now because I am trying to complete a disciplined assignment, to see if I can use Pergamum in a sentence but I am already done with that thought, that’s how fickle my brain has become lost in the virtual wilderness of thinking of what might have been.

This is what we do to ourselves

In the end, as human beings, this is what we do. It’s madness, folly and ultimately, in undeniably sensible circles, potentially meaningless. Does the meaningless drive us mad? If one of us is crazy, aren’t we all? The fact that it is in us to completely disavow ourselves from any identifiable features (human speech, our brain being centered on other members of our species, the ability to communicate, more or less. effectively [*grunts, dog gets beer is perfectly acceptable in this case] and the connection with another human being.

That seems to be all we can hope to live for. If we are part of a vast insanity where nothing matters, and we’re all just talking to some ticker tape version of our past (click, click, click every mistake accounted for) colliding with our survival instincts of the present [how I talk to the 7-11 guy] and our mental cuing of objects and items and sounds and mirages of memories all crumpled up on our link to ourselves in a cacophony of space. This is how I feel about our ability to land on a comet and the fact that we actually did so this week.

Until next time.