Writings: To our good friend LYKA SHEEN
These writings dedicated to our good friend LYKA SHEEN (and her sister SEXMA).
I was perhaps in the 7th grade at Southwestern School in DeLand Florida, a suburb of every thing else around it. From Daytona Beach, my relative childhood idyll, we had moved there the summer before. My step father had an aunt there, Aunt Rosetta, who was a mother of 15 children, one of whom, the 'knee' baby, or next to youngest was my cousin, NATHANIAL HILL, cousin Nate. Before my arrival in our town, a town of perhaps 20,000 at that time during the 70's, cousin Nate was regarded by what local cognoscenti there were, as being THE man as it pertained to singing. He was young, thin, but country built and strong, striking, a southern charmer and good people. He was bluesy like a mofo. He was also what we can now acknowledge to have been a great teacher. I took to him right away, he was a protective cousin who was funny and made me laugh. I made him laugh too, though mainly with my sheltered ignorance and lack of worldly coordination regarding almost anything not purely instinctive. And he were chief among those who laughed at my inability to dance the popular dance moves of the day. He were sure that being raised as a preacher's boy was no excuse for being so discombobulated. The summer I was allowed to hang out with him, we would go into the piney woods behind his home, thick with brush and wildlife and sing together, or rather, take turns trying to outdo or impress the other. We would take turns showing off our masters voices and he was a mean interpreter of Jackie Wilson and Bobby Bland and ilk, which he had himself learned from a much older brother, Roosevelt, who we all called 'Velt. He also had a pure sweet choirboy tenor and used it to great effect, teaching me how to roll off of the choirboy thing and into a more manly voice. “The chicks like that”, he would say. And we both had freakishly high voices which puberty did not rob. He were but 2 years older but experienced and knowing in the way that can only happen if you are one among 15 and both of your parents are still together and in their 70's. He didn't sing much at all in church since unlike me, he were not required to go unless new clothes were involved. He were too young to sing in blues clubs, so it astonishes me now the level he were teaching from, with little or no experience from which to gather it. Must be karma. Now as I see it in the mind's eye, he even looked a little asian, like a zen Tibetan on parole and the day I left those woods with the certainty that I were now the better singer (it were always debatable, that was how good he was), he himself was willing to confirm it. Perhaps he has little idea the degree to which his seal of approval, after all of his glorious lessons and time spent giving them, was like a master class for a young apprentice. Of all other people around my own age all of those lifetimes(2) ago, my cousin Nate was the most thrilling and by far generous of them all. His spirit of accommodation reached into and touched my soul. Later, on bills with other singers who would try to intimidate me, I would always think back to my cousin Nate. With a view towards, 'Dude, you ain't cousin Nate, why would I be afraid of you?' I know not of his whereabouts. Haven't seen or even talked to him since I were perhaps 17 years old and still in DeLand. After that lifetime announced itself more broadly to the world, cousin Nate just disappeared. Just like great teachers are supposed to. He even helped me understand a little bit more about girls. A rascal with the honeys he was. I want him to know that his cousin Sananda has immense love for him. I sit here with a young son who already sings sweetly and strong from the depth of his lungs and his papa thinks of YOU. And what a true friend you were to my becoming. You who always told me that you and I were going to rock the world. I guess you were right, master Nate, WE DID.
These writings dedicated to cousin NATHANIAL HILL.
Be reminded that PORNOGRAPHY is never in the act itself, but always in the description.
Who controls our definitions, controls a great deal of our minds and by extension its dreams and visions of itself. Mind control begins with the alphabet, just as speech does. Get to the speech and you get to the root. Emotional correctness trumps political correctness every time.
If you want people to respect your views, you have to wear sensible shoes.
God forbid that the animals cannot speak as we do, because then they would ALL have a STORY, and no one would ever be able to eat. The animal listening to the animal preyed upon would have to endure the story, and would probably starve before getting a chance to eat. So it is with us, WE HAVE TOO MANY STORIES, and we tell them over and over and get stuck there in the old story and its old telling. SCREW THE STORY and move on. OUR STORIES, once certified can get in the way of the tides that wash away what we collect at our feet, can get in the way of the natural ebb and flow of the laws of the wind in motion and the weightlessness it adds to our hair. Change your story and change your life. Reinvention follows the death of routine, once bored of routine, new sparks of life begin to appear. Providing new threads for new stories to string along in your wake. Once your story no longer works for you, CHANGE THE NARRATIVE.
True SYMBOLIST poets do not simply write their poetry, they live it equally out loud. They write poems and verse not with their pens only but with their large and subtle actions on the roads ahead of them. Even their footsteps express the verbs berating their mind's. And adjectives are options for exploration as state of inquiry and not only as companions on the page. And for them all of nature speaks in sign language and in unison with the self evident laws which are and which she constantly reveals with her rolling tongue, testifying always of both the symbolic and literal truth exposed in each of her actions.
Our freedom is a strange one whereby you are only free UNTIL you actually DO something. Upon which time one comes to know the true COST of freedom is never free and often comes at the expense of a split lip and a busted bank account. And perhaps even waking up in a strange daze with your pants around your ankles, wondering how you got there in that room and why there is a splitting pain in your butt.
A well fed man can afford a better conscience. And has enough energy in his belly to preach it. Our morality improves as our hunger lessens.
When your mother gave me a ride home, I thanked her for her LARGESSE, and she smacked me.
And told me to watch my mouth! “Only my husband can ever talk to me about my ass!”
Perhaps had I said that she'd had 'Acute Largesse', I might have gotten away with it.
The highest form of intelligence is contentment. Intelligence (ultimately), is for shit if it doesn't lead to a form of happiness in living and an essential peace with who you are.
I am a sports nut (and a nut in general, as well as in private- that was a military joke, kind of). Congrats to Chris Berman and Jackie MacMullen for their respective Hall of Fame inductions (football and basketball). Both well deserved from a fan of the contributions of both for many years. Besides, the only TV I watch here in English is ESPN. But you would know this if you had access to my file......
I graduated from a school of fish. I kept dropping out, but it made no difference, the other fish would just follow me. My graduation poem was: I 'm a grad from a school of fish - most of you others will wind up on a dish - I'll be mounted on a wall - I'll sing for my supper - or I'm soup in a bowl - stripping the scales off goldfish and reselling them, that got old - but it paid for all my textbooks - and that was my goal - (plus it kept my mouth from dangling hooks) and forget about the rumor of me and the seahorses - how could I have done it, with all of my courses? So stop giving me those bottom feeder looks - This is our last day as a school of fish - the ocean is our destiny - more mermaids my wish! Whatever life brings don't sweat - though most of you WILL wind up in a net.
A pet peeve I'll acknowledge is seeing, particularly grown men, riding bicycles on the sidewalk. Sidewalks are for pedestrians. For people with shopping. For people pushing and guarding baby carriages. Or simply for people having a conversation as they walk home from work. Europeans streets and their sidewalks tend towards the narrow. I've little quarrel with children under teen age, or with the elderly riding bikes on the sidewalk. But I have seen grown ass men, even with biking helmets on, hogging the sidewalk as were they imbeciles afraid to ride on the main road with all of the other big bad scary cars. And the other bikers sharing their place on the road. Never mind that many times, they are a menace to foot bound loiterers. Do these men know how very silly they look? And how much less respect they will receive in kind from other men who respect the safety and nerves of others? The city ought to make it a ticket fine for unauthorized bicycles being used on the sidewalks. Of course there are a few pedestrian areas zoned for both bikes and walkers and where this is so, we've no problem with it. Where we can accommodate bikes, we are more than willing to. I have already seen too many potential problems in the future, as more imbeciles ride bicycles. They think that they are being green. They are also being selfish. Again, a grown man ought to be embarrassed to be hugging narrow sidewalks like a scared child with training wheels on. Or a child with no manners nor care that they are a potential threat or viable danger in a split second of wrong decision. All that they are missing are their bibs. Be men enough and hit the streets like other real men and women, please. There are more than enough bike paths in Milan to use besides the open streets, which almost always include an acknowledged bike lane. We do admit that the great city could use more. As we green the future, might we also train the green army how to live amongst the rest of the citizenry without enraging and alienating them? In my neighborhood, I have already seen too many classy ladies of a certain age, and too many mothers or nannies pushing their babies and being startled by some ageless wonder on a bicycle who must imagine that he is training to represent his country in the Tour De France. This is obnoxious.
Cultures of denial are breeding grounds for neuroses and addictions. Which perpetuates more denial and the cultures which stem from them and hold their power because of it. When the substance of your life is abused, does it take a degree to figure out that you might run into issues with substance abuse?
A shout out of respects to master Johnny Guitar Watson, who was an icon during the years we labored in our bands in Germany. German musicians idolized him, and I picked up the habit from them.
Prejudice is mainly silly and gets in most people's way as it was designed to. Too many are still affected by it because they themselves, of whatever nature, refuse to give it up. It is too useful as an excuse, even when invalid. Since we largely refuse to see a world without prejudice, we are condemned to our level of belief in it. And repeating endlessly what we see until we don't see it anymore. There is a difference between prejudice and discrimination. The former is blind in both eyes, the latter has at least one eye open.
There is a difference between GOVERNMENT and ADMINISTRATION. We seem right now to have a whole lot of the former and not enough of the latter.
When SCIENCE gets paid for results it ceases being science and becomes PSEUDO-SCIENCE. Real science comes to its own natural conclusions and science is the art of the obvious. Science is but the name we give the natural proven laws of time and manifestation.
Corporations manipulate it all the time. Then again, as a business investment, who endows a university with millions for the WRONG ANSWER to their question? Answers are paid for, then used authoritatively to collect whatever dollars they are meant to collect and the power that goes with it.
THERE IS NO NORMAL! There is only dead or alive.
...my God is cautious and wears a chin-strap.
I talk to myself to assure myself that I am not insane.
I have a split personality (abuse will do that). Problem is, the other personality only understands Spanish, which I do not speak.
Most monsters WE create with our own neglect.
The bat and the dove, on opposite sides of the dream, were not yet ready for their story to begin. But in the meantime, the dove looks hard at the bat, the way Mike Tyson would wear you down with a stare down before commencing to pummeling you in the opposite direction of his fisticuffs. The story wouldn't begin for a while, at least not for quite a few paragraphs, but the DOVE wanted the BAT to know that his days were about to get more batty, as soon as the story did begin.
Your brother is so gay, he thought a political MANDATE was a meet and greet with incoming bachelor Senators and congressman (although I know it's not your nature, tell it to the legislature).
What is also pornographic is how confused my 'calciatore' look for JUVENTUS. LOSING is pornographic and we know it when we see it.
It is easy to blame laziness in communication at the feet of 'misunderstanding'. Don't. Be clear. Much of what passes itself off as prejudice (of any kind) is down to lax communication.
There are no lesser evils. Only more agreeable ones.
2 Irishmen walk into a bar. Followed by 2 Italians. Then suddenly the roof collapses whereby an Irishmen says to another, “Quick, let's get out of here and leave this joke to the Italians!”
I nominate the brilliant ALASKAN HUSKY to take over from the German Shepherds once we deport them back to Germany. Who hates Huskies? And they are American.
DO NOT ASK FOR MORE and expect Joy. Ask for JOY and expect more!
And at the end of his illustrious life, the ORGAN GRINDER, having achieved all, only wanted to make music to keep his monkey active and happy and eligible for his dental plan.
It takes a long branch to make you appreciate a deep root.
I'd love to see a bullfight in SPAIN before it is outlawed. Not for the bullfighting, but for the BARBECUE afterwards.
My immigration position: We never met a nomad we didn't like!
It can feel like you are losing your mind when you are gaining new insights. Every new height scaled first feels a little strange. And once we've gotten used to it, we can go on to a new floor plan. Sometimes the mind catches up later.
For a country as great as America, it has REHAB all wrong. Rehab should be where you go to GET HIGH, under adult supervision. THEN, they kick you out after the long weekend, and you are on your own. Until you return the next weekend.....with all of your friends to get high again!
I am a New England Catholic. I do not just go to Mass. I go to Massachusetts.
I have bloodlines from the native Americans, Navaho, Arapaho, and the mixed native and African 'slap-a-ho' tribe. And on my father's side the KICKAFOOT Indians. Who are themselves the descendents of the 'Pick- a- foot' tribe. Pick any foot and we will kick your butt with it.
The GOOD thing about sleepwalking is that you get a good head start on the day.
Those willing to extend themselves beyond insanity's range are always themselves questioned as insane.
My childhood was so tough, my PEDIATRICIAN was Dr. Kervorkian.
Youth never understands HUBRIS until it is too late. And has already left a scar. Youth stumbles more often than not into what blessings later define its fortune.
The Princeton versus Kingston Jamaica debates on the next Oprah!
Since thoughts are things as said by master KRISHNAMURTI, my thing is this, THOUGHT BUBBLES ARE THE TRUE CAUSE OF GLOBAL WARMING! Stop thinking so much, you are hurting the planet!
The vote counting for the Zooathalon's contested elections will be handled by the staff of Mr. Jerry Manderini.
And where are the airports in Canada or other monuments to JONI MITCHELL? Shouldn't she at least be on currency? Does civilization exist in name only? Parks should be named after her, schools, hospitals. As well as botanical species.
What do you call a young woman with 36D breasts? Your personal assistant, you lucky son of a gun!
..and naturally, when the Zooathalon took a farm poll and asked Mr. Chicken who his all time fave film director was, looking straight into the camera, and playing it deadpan, the chicken replied, 'Peckinpaugh'. Sam Peckinpaugh!
Beauty betrays what chases it and lusts most after indifference.
Beauty is most charmed by what denies it.
We do not live in a stingy universe. We live in a stingy mind.
Every stranger is a lover to a beautiful woman.
Love pays its taxes in guilt or it pays nothing at all.
Just because you are paranoid doesn't mean that someone else isn't trying to take advantage of it.
Your brother is so stupid, he got arrested for possession of his senses.
A rabbi and a priest are standing on the sidewalk outside a bar, eyeing each other warily and waiting a while before one says to the other, “Hey, let's go inside the bar and get this joke on, I'm thirsty.”
The author would like to announce that he rushed Ronnie Brown of the Miami Dolphins for 401 yards vs. the Atlanta Falcons football franchise. Madden NFL 10. Before slipping off into the madness of Madden 11. I can move on now, having dispersed myself of this information. Thank you.
The author is also pleased with the PES 11. It is their best game since PES 08. But the opposing goalkeeper needs to be a bit more active and challenging, which is a step down from PES 08 and 09. Otherwise, I do not care that it doesn't have FIFA's licenses, which seems to me to be the only advantage (if you care for such things) that the FIFA franchise has over PES, which is more playable and less arrogant.
Video games can be very useful in bridging the gap between rote learning and imagination for our children. Learning functions best as discovery. Ultimately, Intelligence is confidence in one's own imagination and trust in one's sense of logic.
Your grandfather is so old, the first time he deposited money in a bank, it was a mineral deposit.
Anything worth doing is worth kicking a few asses along the way to getting done. And life is like this. LOOK for the hard way and she will taunt you with the easy way, but take the easy way and she shows that there IS no easy way. There are shortcuts, though most of them lead to a hole you'll have to dig yourself out of later. PACE, take your time, firm up your will and take the long way home. It's more scenic and less full of traffic. My favorite approach is to take the long way until the very last minute and THEN take the shortcut.
Ho hum. Another week gone past, another singer comes out of the closet. As I have been telling my wife for years, the question isn't who is gay in my profession, but WHO ISN'T?
The LEAST of master EINSTEIN'S contributions to our world was the infamous E=mc2. He was a rare and genuine philosopher who possessed a keen eye for bullshit and used his 'heroic' status to make pronouncements on behalf of his good and patient ally, common sense. It seems that his cosmic sensibility was broadened by a personal spiritual vision to bolster and match it. If it is truly the law of physics, then it stems from the laws of inevitability and our basic spiritual laws, which are all self evident, or they are naught but speculation and trickeration.
That we should all be lucid is agreed. How each man gets to his lucidity is not. How we get there is how we do.
We have a right to be afraid of the STATE. We are only rats while we are looking for cheese. When we begin looking for gold, we become more.
Thanks to MORCHEEBA for sharing the bill with us in BASEL. We appreciated it and wish you all the best!
Leadership is the ship that sails regardless of the winds directions. And is willing to sink or swim on its own authority.
Championship is the ship that rights itself before it sinks. Championships build from the ANCHOR upwards.
Insomnia can ALSO be the first signs of a new spirit awakening! Bear with yourselves, time evens out all waves.
It seems that it is easier for happy people to be rich, than for rich people to be happy.
WHAT PUSHKIN CAME TO SHOVE, was this:
Love, like a good power forward, rebounds.
Love, like any other addiction, must be taken one day at a time.
Language condenses, expansion is often silent.
And that, HOW YOU PRESENT A GAME, is as much a part of the game as the game itself.
To this observer, ROGER GOODELL, the NFL commissioner, clearly has sights set on ambitions beyond football. He is using the game to frame himself as a future leader for a higher office. Pretty much his tinkering with the game, no matter how valid when it is, has raised his profile and placed the right spin on it. There really isn't a lot wrong with the game, though the commissioner is making a meal out of whatever issues arise which he can utilize in calling attention to his office and its accumulating power. As good as Goodell is, I blame the NBA's DAVID STERN for creating the image of the modern commissioner who somehow feels that his brand is above or co-existent with the logo's of their leagues and who has reinvented the role as that of urban sheriff. They are the 'Above the Title' commissioners. The way you see John Wayne's name, and THEN the film title. But might I ask that players be required to not have their hair worn longer than their names on the uniform? If you wish to wear rock star hair, wear it in a net. Grow it longer after you leave the game. But while in uniform, and as a fan, I think that it is undisciplined to see hair on men, warriors, so long, that it obscures their family name. For some, even half of their uniform number. In all sports, is that too much to ask? Or again, wear a net to keep your hair more your own affair than our own. No hair length should be allowed to exceed the very top of the collar where the player's name begins, OR WHY IS YOUR NAME THERE in the first place?
Why is baseball master pitcher DAVE STEWART not in the Hall of Fame? Is it perhaps because some writers confuse him with Dave Stewart of the EURHYTMICS? Has Annie Lennox been made aware of the possible confusion her career may have caused?
Collaborate when it is in your best interest to collaborate, otherwise DOMINATE.
The grace of destruction is that only fractures can produce inclusions, only which through light can break into all directions at once, so as to be the closest thing to your heart, upon reflection.
Upon the gathering of the ZOOATHALON, and the organizing of the various societies and unions which would comprise it, the first gathering of the RODENT SOCIETY was marked by two specific things. The first were the totally silly hats, insisted upon by the same member who figures later in this episode. Imagine the sight of rodents wearing Viking helmets????? Huh? OK, so we will go with that. The same rat who thought of and insisted upon the Viking motif, was overheard by all to loudly proclaim to the catering that their choice of a cheese oriented theme was misguided and prejudiced, and did themselves no favors with the vapid presumption that rats favored cheese as opposed to their elemental nemesis, MICE. Yet, most embarrassing, was how quickly the rats lined up still, at the break, to get to the presumptuous cheese. The selections and cuts were certainly no stingy display, it's aromatic pungent effusion would arouse from a coma, a stiffened man. But this wasn't the point. “Why would you choose to assume that because we are rodents, we are looking forward to eating cheese?” Said the Viking headed chief rat amongst. “Might we also not have enjoyed Venison? Mackerel? Your finest ale? Must it be assumed that we rodents cannot imagine ourselves beyond the holes you press in your cheese? Have we too, no dreams which extend beyond the clouds above our heads, no ambition beyond sniffing out an existence in the dark, and living our lives crumb to crumb, as were we frogs spanning our lives by lily pads? Could you have at least thought to have brought better breads, wines and mustards for the cheeses? YOU INSULT ME SIR, NOW BE GONE WITH YOU!”. Whereupon the other rats demolished the place gobbling up all available cheeses, and what condiments could be easily assimilated or hidden as they were leaving. The aftermath of which was, naturally, to split the rodent group into two essential factions. Those assumed to have evolved beyond edible funguses and cheeses, and those for whom the very thought was regressive and far too presumptuous. But the head rat was right. There were a few rats gathered who had developed allergies to lactose products due to their uses in their various maze training exercises. There apparently being places whose laboratories do not distinguish much between the nuances which exist between mice and rats.
The other problem which presented itself to LUTHER MEANS, was the stiff issue which resided at the heart of the final boarding of the great ship before NOAH assumed command and the vessel sailed into world history, the battle of wills between the ships '12 STEP' organizations (coverage provided by the ZOOATHALON'S medical insurance program and sponsors), and the much beleaguered and maligned Pink Elephants. These had already been a busy last few days for Luther Means, the ships 'maitre de' if you will, its designated second in command after the grand master NOAH. As well as his connection to the venerable MAN OF A THOUSAND YEARS, a repository of ancient wisdom and bar jokes as well as a swell bloke to know, he were also connected to the Freemasons, if all be told and the whipping gales blow (though not for the philosophy, but for the discounts on building materials and beer). The nightingales sing, as the hummingbirds and bees dance out the sun's geometrics of ecstasy. And what looks like spasms of an epileptic seizure are instead the birth of exclamation points writing themselves into the winds of change, like scorpions fencing with lightning strikes, raising their stingers at thunder rolls, though not averse to appearing with drum rolls to announce their sense of place. Luther knelt humbly at the foot of his sleeping body (he were having a dream out of body experience), while the Man of a Thousand Years spoke softly to him about Noah's needs. He briefed Luther on the latest star movements and expressed delight that their close friend and ally, THE THIRD ALIEN, would soon be leaving the body of the SPHINX. Upon Luther Means arising to begin his day, the rain began pouring. All of this in the vaporous presence of the teacher of Copernicus and the various Caesars. The master of Hannibal and Pythagoras, and all other ROUSSEAU'S of reason, swabbing paint or dabbling in philosophical logic. One of ZEUS' fingers laid out in the shape of direction. The master of Napoleon, who suffered while in Naples with pollen. And whose nasals were therefore swollen, with what negatives he happened to swallow, and what theories he agreed to follow, in what bowl he put his mind in. His cheeks were sallow. If he feels less than number one, he is in the bin. And for days on end.
You lead or you are dying, you sweat by your brow, or your tears are lying. You hump like you love, then you pay. Then you pray what is left of your guilt away. And then toss what cannot be dispelled. Or you sink it into a burning well, a kiss to the labia for a lucky few. From atop mount Vesuvius, this wrangler salutes you. Now be still, listen if you will: The PINK ELEPHANTS have a right to exist. Just because alcoholics are frightened to death of them does not give the rights to alcoholics, no matter how well politically protected and financed, to banish their species to extinction. That some alcoholics happen to see them while blasted out of their minds on their favorite beverage is no excuse to take a hardline on their inclusion. They are a rare and noble species. If they have tap danced up a few stairs of tiny bubbles belched by the foam in champagne, what's it to you? They mind their own business, you mind yours. If you by chance happen upon seeing them while on a bender, it is not their fault that you have entered their realm. Show respect. Nod to them and move on. They need to be where they are. They have work there. And don't make fun of their dancing. They enjoy dancing. But all big beasts are a little nervous about how they bust their moves.
There is conspiracy afoot. Just like there is a door ajar. The PINK ELEPHANTS get smeared a lot. Just like the fairies got smeared. And to be afoot in ajar makes you aloof (and to be both dyslexic and aloof makes you a-fool). Besides, they were the ones who as it turns out, protested vociferously against the latest proposal by the moles , that 'WHACK-A MOLE= GUACAMOLE. It was their attempt to win sympathy for their cause which was to eradicate the use of all Whack-A-Mole games from arcades in the future as it encouraged kids to hunt them down and smash them over the head with mallets. Much to the surprise of the shifty moles, the Pink Elephants argued at the emergency meeting that this would effect the economy of mallet manufacturers on whom the local economies depended. And that if they didn't make mallets, they would only be encouraged to make hatchets and that was even worse for moles, was it not? Which the moles didn't find at all encouraging, but which did serve to keep the mole population within reason and away from it's affinity for mutiny, for which they seemed naturally aligned and always on the lookout for. Besides, the Pink Elephants had on board with them one of the whole of the ZOOATHALON'S all time favorite singers, a jazz giant, which ensured their acceptance. The great mistress of popular song, the legendary, 'ELEPHANTS GERALD'!
Pretty much, a Mick is a Nick, just not as quick.
I am not really paranoid. I just like performing with a football helmet. You can get a concussion onstage as well, banging into the wrong chords.
The Sphinx, within his sandstone tomb, stirred. This were no usual stir. Encased as the missing THIRD ALIEN that he had been, the one who escaped, then placed under a wicked and enduring curse for the sin (the forgetfulness) of love, he had lived out his eons as that pre-pixilated figure of lore, of myth. One whose arrival predated language and whose friction produced fire. Prometheus in drag, nursing an eternal hangover, suffering a bad tooth while stranded at the feet of ATLAS, whose sandal straps are whips. A time traveler’s touchstone, as well as a headstone for many a failed conquest toppled by the scales of miscalculation into an early grave. The multi-lateral beast had always retained enough of his dimensional abilities, even as the Sphinx, to shape-shift upon necessity and project his consciousness and inner voice wherever his guidance were needed. But he still remained a prisoner of a symbolic and literal shape he could not as of yet, shake loose from. Pilgrimages were made by people coming from all over the globe in consultation with his form. Prayers with tails of vapor trails from blown out glowing candle wax reached into his mental plane and placed within, flames of doubt to be quelled and cooled. Infants and small scrolls of request were placed near him to bless and anoint. For many, it were like unto an out of body experience which affected even the dreams for years afterwards. For some, it were an electrical grounding. For others, an effervescent lifting of the spirit. Some penetrated into the deep mysteries of themselves and came out less wanting, and free of the exhaustion which attends it. And some made evil magic of what they could, as some will do. As it happens, Earth in all of her throb, wobble and spin, at times releases just the exact bundle of frequencies, which like keys unlock new and sometimes ancient things. Even dreadful things and waking dragons whose swallowed fire has changed their shape into steaming schemers. Sometimes Earth's subtle tones align just right and in a dance with just enough sympathetic variables, as to produce a gasp of awe from the closed cavities time cocoons her clocks in. This were such a moment when a stir becomes a stirring, and a stirring becomes a vortex which produces a wave form that penetrates all simultaneous sine waves and springs open the tumblers of the deep vaults of nature's prerogatives. A swirling door swings open and PRESTO CHANGO, the eggshell cracks and out steps THE THIRD ALIEN as if stepping out of a thought bubble and then into the light which frames it. A NEW CREATURE! Now free of his venerable SPHINX body. Now free. Oh my God, now free (and while supplies last)! No more tourists with hacking coughs and sample rock collections. No more disrespectful bird droppings framing his head like a phosphorus halo of neglect. Time had been served, if indeed quite very long. And dues collected. Time had been gathered, as rain in a barrel rests and bounces to its own quiet reflection. Time had been saved from these self deluded realms. From this chaotic base of anomaly. Now, he regained the capacity to not only project himself throughout space time without limitation, but to once again be able to split his manifestations into as many physical formats as he felt compelled to share. To suit any tribe, any gender as fit the vision of his time left working these parched and bitter fields. Now that he were free of his entrapment, what had seemed like an eternity now seemed a little less than, if not more than a long and vivid dream. Balancing itself between the twin borders of insanity and ecstasy, with them both perched on the fault line of incredulity. Torture and rupture, then rapture, outlined with a most prevailing grace. A release that rivals the apples which preceded them for sweetness. For temptation, for taste, and for the pulp that ferments the chafing breezes which rattle our minds like roughage and pull away from us the dross that stands as the ruins of depression's drapes, it's curtains drawn back against itself, it's cobwebs fracturing the morning's dispersion of sunlight. Long held back by an unseen wall, now walking away from it brick by tumbling brick. Instinctively, the Sphinx, this lost and missing alien from another time and place, harnessed his will to summon his spaceship. A lightship. Within seconds, hovering above the steps of the great pyramids in Giza's corridor, appeared a triangular angled whirring disk of golden yellow, with what seemed like a red and green electronic pulse circling the disk. One moment he stood in the smoldering echoes of his former chamber, as would the fabled phoenix in his time, whose fire is on the ground, a nest of flames crackling with thorns. With the Sphinx, another griffin, the fire was in the sky. And parallel to his will, by thought, within an eye blinking in disbelief's shade, he were safely within his flying disk. With which he could reverse time, or spin forward into the unknown from which all time comes. Capable of traveling in any directional realm and to any dimensional reality, he were sure to first chart a course for his home planet for a lifetime's worth of home cooking. To reconnect himself with what roots remained to fill the holes in his mind with those ties which still held fast to endless love. Which still held fast to faith and the curling smoke rings of curiosity. This astronaut had paid a more than heavy price for his excursion into a clamorous landscape full of holes, though fewer openings. And very stingy with escape hatches, but replete with trap doors. He had gotten trapped into a mine field fertile with menace and magic used for mischievous gain and whose palaces had been raised upon the ashes and bones of the tarred and broken. He had seen confusion traded as an acquired veil of reason, and logic trampled as a peril but for the pleasures of a few. He had seen and perhaps even caused a few miracles, though no miracle like the long wait being finally amended to include the open days once more. He were now back in the swim of the wellsprings of chance. ANYTHING at all could happen now, Anything. High on the agenda was to conclude essential earth related business, business he were sent to initiate despite his entrapment, and then to return via the deep recesses of space and its velvet dark mysteries, to his planet of mercy and resuscitate the mighty dragon tail of his longing. Which he had swallowed to protect all of those many years ago. And be sure that a dragon's tail lost in one life becomes his tongues of flame in the next. With the claws to scratch out his existence among the stars. And the patience to ignite their birth, as well as the will to burp the thunder from the aftermath. Archeologists would debate for years to come the whereabouts of the Sphinx, he didn't mind, it provided work and work was good. And if a man is scratching his head, then his hands are that much closer to his heart. He DID mind leaving the atmosphere of Earth, without stopping by a museum gift shop and airlifting a few souvenir T-shirts commemorating his time here before disappearing into the clouds of euphoria hugging the milky way. The friends back home would appreciate the irony of the Alien, the SPHINX, wearing his own merchandise while reflecting on his time tucked beneath the atmosphere of planet Earth and what it had all meant, while his hand cooled by the sweat of the cold beer it embraced.
But no one had ever seen a dentist with these kinds of 'cojones'. If you came to him for a filling, he would place a radio controlled microchip inside of your filling and with a remote control device he kept, rudely remind you that your teeth were not paid for and unless you paid the bill, and forthwith, the buzzing device would drive you insane until you did. Imagine clients asleep and being buzzed!
This is inevitably what happens when Dentistry are given these expansive powers and exploding technology.
4 out of 5 doctors agree with me. I'm told that with a heftier perks package, I could have gotten the 5th doctor as well. Likewise a major university is partially backing my latest scientific theory, until such time as I finish the payments (oops, 'grants') and then we can fully agree.
Panicky moves often follow bad decisions.
Love's greatest demand is that we be willing to remove what stands in its way.
Split personalities will occur as an adjunct to difficult trauma and the bearing of it and when a person's sense of self is more broadly stated than their minds are allowed to encompass. One large self or many smaller fractionalized ones. Speaking from one mouth or several, the truth of spirit always bears its tongue, through whatever channel is willing to whistle its winds. Truth is the ventriloquist that will speak through any dummy available. And the truth plays in all major and minor keys. And like porn, each knows it when they see it, what is truth for them.
It isn't PORN if I am turned on by it. It is porn if I'm not. Kind of like the whore who didn't call it rape until AFTER the check bounced.
Truth be told, the best time to diet is not when the feast is in front of you, but when it isn't.
Thank you very much, once again, for the support of my concerts during this last period of PMR activity. Except for the one asshole who always pretends not to know what time it is, we are always encouraged by your response, which we are grateful to participate in. The birth of the new always has a few grieves to bear, though your reactions always make it more than worthwhile.
One man's 'overdoing' it is another man's way of expanding his capacity for assimilation.
We fight with our angels largely because it proves to us that they are there. And why should we always fight with ourselves? Angel bashing is one of our spiritual birthrights.
Love must be willing to stand taller and loom larger than the bullshit that often surrounds it. Otherwise it be trapped by its own magnetic pull and succumbs to the rule of the lower laws and its lesser tendencies.
Love must also be willing to let no definition limit what it sees of itself and its true nature. Each love is like a snowflake, an invention bore purely of time and necessity, and each singular moments grace. Love must know when it be expedient to turn the other cheek, if not a blind eye to ugly or ignorance, and when to take it by the horns and slam your fist into its face. Each true love has its own signature. And each love maintains itself by avoiding for too long the shadow of its own apathy.
It is not the road of excess that kills. It is the road of denial that leads more likely to our demise.
Even I, the author, thought that the BAT and DOVE story would last longer than the first draft we wrote. I'd also anticipated the Dove, loaded with hand grenades, going all Roadrunner on the Bat's Wiley Coyote and doing some major damage. Not so. The bat remembered himself in the first paragraph and using his bat powers, turned himself into a baseball bat, a Louisville Slugger and slammed himself into the dove so hard, he lost his white feathers (which turned out to be a bird toupee), and revealed himself to have really been composed of two pigeons masquerading for the holidays. Sometimes you own the story and sometimes the story owns you.
And do you really want to know what happens when the IMMOVABLE OBJECT meets the IRRESISTABLE FORCE? They cancel all of their previous appointments and they go out dancing. Ciao for now!
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED (what rights are left...)
COPYRIGHT SANANDA FRANCESCO MAITREYA
MILANO 11th NOVEMBER 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED