Purse and shoe porn for lipstick lesbians: this and other beneficial life advice
what are we doing here?
What does it all mean?
Is there a higher purpose?
Other than quelling my guts and my nuts?
I plan to leave this burgh on the good side of the ledger. With a decent name, leaving my goods behind, and departing this mortal coil of clear conscience.
But not yet. Not yet.
Walking the dog one night, I might get flattened by a steaming meteor or something, but to die unexpectedly doesn't mean I wasn't ready. A con in a movie said "you never get tied up in anything you can walk away from in twenty seconds flat." I'm not that succinct about it. That's no way to live. Come over. Unpack your things and sit on the porch with me. It'll take you thirty-five minutes to make even the minimum socially-acceptable exit.
The energy of your spirit will break down into its constituent elements and eventually return into the surrounding macrocosm, just as it was before you were conceived. Life begets life. Life is immutable.
My soul will be as a song in the winds.
Only atrophy is certain, however. And maybe one day in the debris field there will grow little patches of fur that will be the only remainder of life left.
All Lies: My Rose Spent A Summer With Those Nasty Travelling Gypsies.
Roma, they call themselves, the wayward scum in their pull-behinds.
My Rose spent a summer with them and came back pregnant. Did we keep it? None of this is real, I told her and did the thing myself. I had gotten shed of many a litter of pups previously from around the neighborhood with those wandering mongrels. A Roma half-ling would be nothing new. It's all a matter of air getting into the placenta. But I'm sure you don't want to know the gory details.
Or maybe you do.
My Rose had a sadness in her eyes ever after that told me she yearned for that lost pup of youth. She didn't blame me, or so she said, but she kept thinking of that lost pup, being properly niggled by the whole matter.
If my Rose didn't have those charming fat thighs that I like so much, maybe I would give her a good dose of chlorine, cleaning the life right out of her, so she could join her lost pup, which looked so much like the ketchup-covered stuffed cabbage right out of the oven, and was even still warm to the touch, meaning the little mutt was probably not quite dead yet when I tossed it into the dust bin.
Such happens. Life is an abortion of love. And spirit.
yodelling a song of one's self
I tell you, life is like a complex chemical reaction. Think of baking a cake. The closer we get to the process, the more complex its seems, until it finally seems like a thermodynamic miracle ala Dr Manhattan.
There may be a time when one needs self-examination, even self-exploration. It is a possibility. David Milch had a line in NYPD Blue about being a good fish guy, "you keep a healthy tank." Healthy fish live in a healthy tank. No way around that, people. In keeping a healthy tank, you keep adjusting, adding and tossing away certain ingredients, using whatever is necessary to go forward with spirit.
Blinded and confused, wandering from behind the JC Penney's, one may need to adjust his or her priorities going forward. How do you then measure success? Money? Adulation? Are you happy in your daily life? Do you define yourself by your work?
the most difficult thing: throwing down the gauntlet before one's own self.
You do not compete with Donald Trump or George Clooney. You compete with you, and your image of yourself. What are you, then? What then do you want to be?
A challenge is afoot, it would seem, if you answer the questions in the assigned order.
Five years ago, I was on self-imposed exile, much like a prisoner, feeling like a prisoner of the world, pidgeon-holed, not realizing my own freedom, but feeling the burden of the outside world. But since, I have come to generate my own gravitational field within my personality, thanks in part to a prescribed drug cocktail, and also the healing effects of time.
I have built my personality. I have discovered new skills and interests. In 2013, I read 342 books. I have written books. I have written screenplays. There are yet other provinces to conquer, tho-yet more skills to develop and nourish like the youngling blossom.
My question: are we accomplishing something, or are we just jacking-around here? Lol.
Making asses of you and me: assassinations.
Old Yeller was Goldwater-approved propaganda about JFK. "We loved him, but we had to put one in his CPU."
Or to paraphrase: "Kill the head and the body will die." Or more apt yet: "The only way to kill a snake is to chop off its head."
Lions, and tigers, and bears. Oh my.
Distasteful, I call it and I prefer yet Civil Disobedience rather than looting and pillaging commercial properties. But this is a capitalist society, so I suppose legislative rage and angry citizens could focus on innocent storefronts.
Assassination is distasteful. Unpaletteable. Luckily we have frequent elections, though it means we have about a fifty percent chance each time of being disappointed with the results.
Civil Disobedience is the province of principled people.