...remembering the red mud days, alternately thinking of relevant details and noticing an incident in my lower spine. Nothing the McKenzie Method can't cure. The curve must be regained, the bubble needs to be deflated, been tricked into a golf game, gotta swing loose and true...what does 'fore' even mean?
"Stevie The Grit" by jpg
...grits are delicious, with butter and pepper. All americans will rediscover. Stevie The Grit, fighting off threats in each round, minding his game, bringing his heat, keeping his cool. Overcoming tricked up shots, an uptight brat, and a true brazilian mudder. The emerging cramps of the final couple of games furiously rubbed out on a changeover by an Asian wizard. Perhaps the most incredible massage ever caught on television. This allowed Stevie The Grit a chance to win the title. And he did. His serve, groovy forehand, and improved mindset the reasons. Thomaz Bellucci's inexplicable weak backhand into the net while The Grit was unable to even take a step, allowing the 3rd set tiebreaker, also contributed to the outcome. The Brazilian's surprising Romoesqe moment...
"The River Oaks Area Aside" by jpg
...the grip of Houston's perpetual traffic extends north almost to the eloquent and impressive Sam Houston statue in Huntsville. Surely he would be in distress over the condition of the city that bears his name, especially if he inspected it from a convertible. The River Oaks area aside, the city planner types should call a meeting. They should all fire each other for crimes against logic, vision, and project management...
"Ample Samples" by jpg
...Fairfield, Texas. The Cooper conglomerate of food excellence should be supported coming and going. Ample samples, friendly folks, clean. Good...
By the semis, the practice boy grab asses are gone, the showouts and gritless. The ones that respectfully hate their opponents are left. As a player, while playing especially, it is a trap to root for others. Bellucci acknowledged no one as he arrived to practice for his quarterfinal match. Donaldson was hopping on his feet and staying positive after his tough 3 set loss to qualifier Maximo Gonzalez a day ealier. He should learn from Thomaz Bellucci on how to act. He don't care about up and comers and he dont care about old and tough. Bellucci won his quaterfinal match, taking out Querrey. Also, coach glances and reactions of any kind should be selected carefully.
"Avoid" by jpg
Brookstreet bbq. D minus. Cold pork. Horrible sides. Avoid...
"TV Jones classic" by OneFineGringo
I would like to welcome the newest who-ah to my who-ah house.
My friend Spencer made it. He's good at stuff. Ive been hassling him to sell it to me and he finally needed the money bad enough. I pick it up next Friday.
Details if interested:
*Neck- maple with rosewood slab fret board made by Warmoth.
*Body- ash thinline from allparts. Roth metal flake in clear nitro.
*Fender bridge with Glendale cold rolled steel saddles.
*Glendale grip-o-matic knobs
*cts pots CRL 3 way and switchcraft jack.
He wound the pickups. He made the bridge from scratch. It's a hot tele bridge and neck is a TV Jones classic that he also re-wound to work better in a tele neck position.
"So Smoky" by Matt
This is the best homemade ramen I've ever had! So smoky
"All maybe, maybe" by jpg
Don't touch the breakables! Finish your swing. Half step forward, momentum is a mother. Spotts Park revelations and curves. Internal simmering and demeanor control. Losing ain't fun, but you're still playing tennis. All in. Rain or not. All out, the only rational way...All maybe, maybe. No snorting! Damn important. Growl.
...consultations with former local houston insider...scribbled choice spots for Wed night reflections...market square...hearsay, a dinner place...okra, with some unique community partnership...bad news bar, sounds like bad news...warrens, the nightcap spot...confession: never understood what nightcap meant...last beer? Final pour of wine? Last shot of Jack? Regardless, good to have some insight from a bonafide Houstonian...he seems a fine fellow, former bartender, current trading specialist...however, my go-along instinct is strong...with planning talent like TTop, the general insistence of CB, and the creativity of the ghost prince, my mind is doorless...
"Fog" by CB
Mile Marker 210 hitchhiker wearing a hospital gown. Don't pick him up.
Fog in Angus, TX.
"Drop" by TTop
Always drop a drop.
"Emotional Variance" by jpg
...the tradgedy of jared donaldson, so sure of his potential, unbelieving of mistakes, too much emotional variance...the loud encouragement seems out of place...looking to te stands, the coaching know it alls. The argentine max gonzalez never looked to the stands...only swatted his shoes free of mud, kept his cool. A drop killer...
...this tennis giant, fresh from the mosh pit...an entire generation apart, a two decade head start...but the decline has begun for the elders, life's undeniable truth...the brain's the equilizer, but only for a time...the clay seems darker on the screen, burnt orange...memories of a pearl white pool table with similar colored felt...tilted and torn...genuine draft neon sign, miller's desperate brew...two of three favors the old, three of five favors the young...
"Gritless" by jpg
...the old sturdy german proved too cool, the lanky american dragging his feet and giving up on shots by the end, content with a split set loss...haas, a former u.s. clay court champion, has seen his kind come and go...bend your knees man! that's what its gonna take...tommy haas will never be too old to beat reilly olpelka...like many other promising yanks of late...gritless...
"Elbow Fatalities" by jpg
...working on improving my game...moving, mental torture avoidance, the elbow realities of an aging player--elbow fatalities rather...yes, only spectating, for now...delusional, perhaps....will be checking in brothers and sisters, from the edge of the gulf of mexico, reporting from the red mud of houston...
...three dollar bloody mary's with huevo rancheros. art everywhere. flag painters and peace corps sculptors. so foriegn for the creators to perform, as if it matters. as if God Himself cared about feedback. He digs His stuff too...
...in the aftermath of the storm, when relief was mixed with loss, after the sky's anger had gone, it was still noisey. but peaceful sounds, not the crashing, thumping taunting of the pitch black clouds. like dark itself, bumming everyone around...
...take the road near the park line, on over to the narrow bridge, the one that goes over wilson creek. look out for snakes always and be watchful of others and everything. observation is the key to learning, curiously paying attention and making notes...
...theories about conspiracies and more and more histories, cashing the checks of innocent sins. dealing in the arts with the art of the deal, nothing to gain but the deal in my head. float the boat gently over the water, the ripples will dance...
The shambles of my game are smoldering in a pit of glowing coals and lava. Steam lifts as the sweats of anger evaporate. My earlier explosion caused the blaze--that and an unforgiving opponent. My tennis education continues.
During the 11th game of the 15 game mahut, after being up 40-love in the previous service game and losing to make it 5-5, I'd decided to quit tennis. My opponent went on to hold serve and win the 11th game, and then the abuse began. A crash into the fench, a smash to the hardcourt, even a hard chunk across the net, konking the bench, and careening to my opponent's feet. A classy moment. A fit. Like it was the racquet's fault, and further, the racquet must be punished. In an abusive and cold manner. Lunacy. The eventual loss of 7-8 was tainted with shame. Asked for forgiveness at the closing net shake. For stealing my opponent's tennis joy. And worse, attempting to steal his tennis glory.
Good mahut for me really, a better result than the previous week, where my pathetic mental game helped produce a 2-8 loss. Summed up in this note describing the mahut...
The humbling began early, my opponent taking advantage of my chronic mental weakness. His wounded shoulder in my mind. Sympathy is such a pathetic and useless emotion in sports. It can motivate those receiving it unwantingly. And so it did, 8-2. Sure, serves came to me with no pop, but the spins were wild, my feet were bumbling, my strokes were incomplete, my tennis anger turned into despair, then defeat. My opponent taught me a lesson today. I will take note, I will learn from it. Seeing him and his red brake covers, hearing the roar of his exhaust, squinting at the shine of his convertible camero, I could only marvel. I could only wonder. Has anyone actually seen this MRI indicating a torn rotater cuff?. Doctor priviledge, I guess, but think of it. Brilliant. Surely not, that would be too brilliant. To fake an injury to ruin the mental game of your opponents. I will learn from this, yes, I will learn from this mahut. Mahut!
Physically, everything is good, despite the extra few lbs being lugged around. Joints, muscles, tendons, ligaments, and back. The eyes are weakening and the glasses fog, but still strong on the court, the tennis elbow of two years ago defeated. Plantar fascia troubles no longer. The mental weakness, however, can lead to a motivational crisis. And this is where I stood in the 12th and 13th games of my morning's crumbling mahut. Quit tennis until the Thursday morning Houston mahut, traditionally played before attending the day session of the U.S. Clay Court Championships. A three week layoff would do me well I thought, all the while aimlessly firing forehands and backhands out, in the net, to the fences. At least I wasn't screaming profanities and abusing my racquet.....any longer.
Came back and won a couple, but only after ruining the tennis peace of the entire complex. The Indians were polite, as always. Maybe it was Green Day, the morning's musical selection. Perhaps punk rock should be for other venues. But the morning was jamming, til the emotions in my mind let me down. The quitting idea has already been abandoned, it is rarely the best option. Perhaps prayer, yes, prayer. Prayer is always the answer. God's Will. Amen. Mahut!
...these are rural Parker County fish, rarely disturbed, rarely excited, just fish. Big, well fed black bass. Swimming around in the big Sagecrest Farms lake in schools. Separated from the small Sagecrest Farms pond by a narrow but sturdy dam, which also serves as the only road down to the cleared out river bank area. The Brazos waters flowing southeast to the Gulf of Mexico. These rural Parker County fish were massacred by the Tokie Indian Tribe of North Texas. Scalped and scaled, marinaded and grilled. Burned on the edges to get a crispy bite. Pictures flooded glowphones, social media went wild. These massive bass being held up by the youngters of the tribe while the chief smiled proudly, blood on his hands. Put em on hooks, suffocated them of water, prolly took several shots. Those big fish, surely counting on the catch and release culture they had grown accoustomed to, were shocked. Under the surface, far from the ability of the Tokies to see, meetings were called. The elders spoke. The lazy catfish no-showed, of course. Even the minnows sent representatives. A few had been abducted. The Tokie chief ate one raw. Evidently, he was making good on a wager of some sort. Had to do with push-ups, both girl children able to do twice as many and even the small boy doing many more. The young, always in the process of growing and maturing. The old are different. The elder fish called for level 3 caution. The dumb fish got hooked regardless. The cocky. The desperate...
...A permit malfuction, causing panic with the Caprock Canyon park ranger, as the trip back to the Rio Blanco was just getting started. Chance to use the lights and siren. Tore around the shoulder, passing several cars, skidding to a stop behind my black japanese sedan. The glow of finishing the level 5 hike was forgotten, the refreshing ice cold coors was gone. Interrogated of address, rationale, previous visits, and travel plans. Passed over my ID. Sniffed and scanned.
"Do not remove the permit from the inside of the windshield until you leave the park boundry."
That's what the scotch tape was for, we now figured. We got the message, the glare of Okra The Indian from the passanger seat, the cool ease of El Camino in the back, and my crisp answers to questions, quicky convincing the officer to move along. Nothing here. Never took the car out of drive, had the foot on the brake. Was ready to hit it if I had to, the Canyonball Run was on!...
The competition was nothing short
of a healthy hatred. For a time, wishing woe on others. Until the end of the game, washered out. The rum making its way, in healthy doses, to the mind. Finding everything funny and stumbling. Weary from the road, but well fed on pickled okra and cheese. With crackers. Ritz, the good kind.
The Whitmore Museum of Natural History, famous for the first land dweller, when seas dried up. The Seymouria Baylorensis, named for the nearby town of Seymour, in the early 1900s, when they were first discovered. 250 million years ago. 70 million years before the big dinosaurs. The T-Rex had feathers for sure. Dr. Bakker, the famous Bavarian Paleontologist, insisted for years. Vindication is so tasty. Huge animals of all kinds. Bobcats stalking turkeys and pulling them out if the sky. The lab, where Glenn and Sandy told us of their passion for these old dirty skeletons, of how it took 2 hours to chip and clean an inch long piece of ancient bone. The puzzle of the structure. A fine museum. They knew of Heard in McKinney. Legitimate. Even a replica of the first creature to hear sound, the Diadectus. What did noise sound like before hearing? The forest knows.
The ribs are ready. Slaw and bread. Everything is green in West Texas. The early heat growing the grass in late winter. The cattle will be plump, but the wildfires could be bad.
In space it must be quiet.
Silence we've never not heard.
Eternal empty hollowness.
Nothing filling the space.
Answers to questions of the day.
The puzzle is always taking form.
Billions of eyes continue the search.
Soundwaves of mute.
Points of view and scripts.
Intellectuals cannot be understood.
They are well known to be wrong.
Common fools in the end.
Bribery will not work anymore.
These scoundrels and thieves.
Innocent palms were nailed.
To the money tree.
This prizefight is full of action.
Body punches and hooks.
Jabs connecting with iron chins.
Spit buckets and broken noses.
Rumble on, rumble on.
No relevancy and time for a walk.
The outsiders don't understand.
Where the living is good and easy.
Boxes stacked on boxes.
No keys fit the locks.
Numbered and labeled.
Jarred and stashed on the shelf.
Made to wait and waste time.
As glory gets ever closer.
Through the best and worst.
Towards the daylight of the gate.
For a long time.
No busting out.
Just a bust.
The reports from Birmingham kept arriving. Glowing and descriptive, the styles distinctive, the words sparse, as requested. Only the words that mattered: Blue Monkey at Nine, Bucket, Veljovic, J Clyde, The Magic City, A 1000 dying suns, Delaney on the mind. Incidents and no accidents, glaring and demanding victory. Americans, the Swiss killers. Alabama Shirly was right. Everything was fine. Documented and recorded, accessible digitally forever. Memories are obsolete. Making experiences is the modern day making memories. Do it. Go. This is our time. Houston loomed, a Super time for GaGa to fly, followed by red, white, and blue drones. A pledge to the flag and a dive. Piano song showed them all. Women do rule. Red clay ahead, River Oaks and the fashion shows. Feliciano Lopez groupies and discussions with Brad Gilbert. He was right about Fed. We were wrong about Sock. Only CB can save his career, but he would never sign the contract. If Sock only knew. He is trapped by the suits. The guitar players must go to the north where Hobos are needed. To play the festivals and protests of the city. The power of the woman is the truest truth of this world. Like Serena and Venus, the sisterhood is unbreakable. Collect at the North End of Erwin Park. Our gals are the best gals. CB, T-Top, peoplesDuke. The women of our lives. We have come to understand, our natures know, and our natures provide. The Pats, for sure. For obvious reasons, over time, whatever it takes.
Napoleon was a creep. The power grubber of barbaric Europe. The civilized moved to Texas. Back when the cattle roamed back and forth across the Rio Grande. Like Lonesome Dove. Visions of McMurtry, our finest writer. On his terms of endearment and his last picture show. Duane's depressed. Rhino wars. The Archer City book man. Gone hollywood, gone on the road, gone back. Live and let live, and write it down. It is some kind of life. A future, perhaps.
Yes, Napoleon was a creep. Envied by all the creeps in history, evidently. Admired for this ridiculous trait. Hysterics of the sore kind. Bitterness and snarks. The boots will snuff em out. Like a thousand cigarette butts. Common litter is all. Your mess is your own mess. The world needs light, and the world has light. Good is better than bad. Happy is better than sad. The creeps should be drowned, figuratively. Drowned out and called out. For abuses to others. For interrupting the calm and the peace. Music can exist, and cure, anyway. Beyond this fight. Smells like teen spirit for sure, when applied expectations were smashed. Whatever, nevermind does mean everything. The importance of every soul. Keep looking forward my loves, the future goes forever.
T-Top almost whipped a street guitarist's ass for calling him an ass-hole. For taking a pic of his Husky who was licking his hand. The dude says "watch out, that dog bites!" T-Top spoke to the chic on the ground next to the Siberian Husky, the petting approved and implied consent. The Husky had beautiful blue eyes, the girl had a brown hue all round her. The clothes, the hair/eyes, the imagined smell. The entitled 6th St.-type millennial never took his finger off the pick. He sat on top of a trash bin kept plucking the E string nervously. T-Top moved aggressively with a clenched fist. It went from 0 to 60 fast. Immediately we realized it was not worth it. We headed down the hill to our hotel. He called us "Yuppies" when we were 20 ft. away. We laughed.
"Blue Monkey at 9"
After the commanding Singles performance of Sock and Isner, confidence levels were high across the board at Legacy arena. Day 2 doubles, flag ceremonies, team introductions and respect to ball boys ans girls, and of course, the officiating crew. T-Top shouts at perfect 15 feet away volume "we love you Marijana". The beautiful Serbian tennis chair umpire, Marijana Veljovic, turns slowly to look at the Texas trio. Her confidence level kicked up a notch, similar to Sock's second serve. The Americans showed their colors and finished strong in the 3rd set. Tennis was done for the Texas trio, and when the stunning Serb walked by a clear message was sent. "We still love you Marijana, Blue Monkey at 9".
"Hopp Suisse, Seeing Red and I Need More Cowbell"
Now at 13th & Cobb, the cobblestone street lit with 100 year old gas lanterns. J. Clyde and the famous sauerkraut balls. "Best I've ever had," T-Top plainly stated. Over to the Blue Monkey. The lounge dimly lit. British Frankie pouring cocktails and Jess interacting with the regulars. Intimate.
Tracking through the deep south with the hint of andouille sausage, pimento cheese, and local honey seeping from our pores, we are 10 miles outside of Birmingham, AL. headed to the civil rights museum for some historical perspective ...antebellum homes, stars, bars, and pick up trucks ...the Alabama hot biscuit still on our minds.
Birmingham, the nucleus for race relations on Redneck Island Season 3. Scattered, capped, gravy on the side. Tennis and more tennis with Delaney itching my mind and other parts. Black market karaoke with no one to sing. Executive orders by accused undercover racist. Our time has come and gone, the dream of unification stays real but seems distant.
"Revolution & Reconciliation"
Just under the surface of 21st century life, the City of Birmingham's past is viewed with an intense, unforgiving microscope. The prayer marchers gathered near a firehouse downtown. Four motorcycle cops waiting with flashing lights, silent, helmets with tinted visors and bodies covered uniformly, no skin showing, gloves over hands. What to eat? T-Top never tried moo-shoo pork and Yen's is across the street. Tennis at 2. Delaware plates at the Vulcan monument. The Roman god of fire with an iron hammer in hand watching, protecting the "magic city".
ATM incident in E. TX., 2 wheels off the ground in Louisiana, listening to ABBA whilst weaving through the endless caravan of 18 wheelers. Nightfall has come and the quiet whir of the road resonates up through the "may-pop" tires. 63k miles on the Elantra and no recollection by the JBK that the tires have been replaced.
Will we get there...
Transaction not authorized. $200 requested, $0 dispensed. Alabama Shirley guaranteed late arrival. Mary, Jenny, Steffi, et. al have settled in for the night. T-Top, peoplesDuke, and "CB" ChillyBilly have taken flight. Evenly spaced red lights mesmerize, hypnotize, and guide by soft light. Johnny & June sing along the way "I'm going to Jackson" blares.
"Ghosts of Vicksburg"
Mighty Miss the powerful river in our rear view. The ghosts of Vicksburg haunt us. The stars, the sky, the north, and the south mix in the air we breathe as motorhead drowns the calling from the souls reaching out from nearby rolling hills.
Time has slowed... Dixies midnight runners can't run fast enough. Alabama Shirley is expecting us. Red skys at night like a soft glow of 1000 dying suns.
the ache just aches. too much pain to vomit. dull and escalating. all has been tried.
fits and screams, vulgarities and silence. nothing will help. the woe is real. Such a petty thing.
fandom and it's inevitable false hope. the party ends quick, left with crumbs and dishes. run around the corner, make a drop. take the long road to nowhere.
through the fog and January rain. inches matter and instant replay don't lie. historic pass for 35 yards. and the kick slipped through.
the depression was striking and clear. this was not the blues, nothing that a tune could cure. tried it all. three threes in a row.
laid flat on the back. weight training, hot tub, and 35 huge breaths of menthol-laiden steam. wore all black. humor is not funny, anger isn't working.
distractions perhaps, TV and glow. irritable and unpredictable, poor dogs. Pete Delkus has a new hair color as he tracks the tornadoes in the area. we should skip the sportscast.
put the radar on the screen. chin up my cowboy brothers and sisters, heaven is still badass. this sweet tooth is only a trap. medicine, of the drowsy kind.
wonder of MLK's favorite team. he understood the weakness of us all, the sin we can't overcome ourselves. regardless of our vows, despite our commitments. our dedication is worthless, our hope is misplaced.
failure is a gift, a sting that burns. the embers can become flames again. but the air is polluted for now, just smoke and ash. our shoulders slump, our necks tilt forward.
Years ago we had a wedding show.
And here is where we are.
Glad you stayed, never went away.
Never broke my loving heart.
Now we see it was meant to be.
We're almost to the line.
The one you cross when pride is lost.
And everything seems fine.
Little girls with little curls.
They're almost grown up now.
Watch em walk, hear em talk.
They got it figured out.
So they think but they're on the brink.
Of really living life.
All the flash and all the trash.
Learning on the fly.
As for us, we'll fight the rust.
And swim out to the deep.
Better together in any weather.
The storms will never sleep.
All that night I held you tight.
Told you I'd be true.
Here we are and I'm true so far.
Forever I said I do.
The only real work done.
Meticulous and proper.
Jazz and vaudeville.
Tapping for the money.
Hearing nothing and everything.
Like Miles might say.
Understand the surroundings.
And your common traits.
Contentment and its safety.
Recklessness has a bleak future.
Lose it all.
And all of something is something.
Be an old timer.
On your own time.
In the early years of your life, when you worked and worked til the very end. When you felt important and noticed. When you struted. Alarmed you were, to be floated away, to be sent off on a makeshift raft. Alone, out to the deep seas where the moonlight reflection never ends. Like the Light itself. The beginning and the end.
The world is full of intelligent words thought up by ignorant minds. Masking the idiocy, condemning disent. Rationality of a perception. Nothing is found, only defended and debated. Truth, as we know, is not in us. Only mathematics, microscopes, and telescopes keep us anywhere near the truth. Then our theories are made, usually to justify a conclusion. And some come to pass, some are, in fact, validated. Absolutely. However, the list of theories and hypothesis that don't come about, that are wrong, that are invalidated, is a list with no end.
The rotations continue. The perfect rhythm of our space travel. Like we're on the end of a string being swung around, suspended forever. The sun has some kinda pull! Like a one man band, playing all the intruments, keeping perfect time while infinity waits. The effort involved is only temporary. Hold on, the sun will not lose its grip. The dizziness is normal.
Then the brain gets its oxygen.
And the thinking begins.
But no deciding is done.
Until the mind is tired.
Worn from seeing the angles.
Beat from the hypotheticals.
Routed by what if scenarios.
No decisions could be decided.
Conclusions could be concluded.
Concluding that nothing be decided.
Hierarchical needs arise.
Becoming the priority thought.
Hunger and desire.
Scheming to satisfy.
Frustration unavoidable and looming.
Literal use can maintain the brain.
Activities of concentration.
Intentional calming techniques.
Collaborations and relationship curiosities.
Your time directed by the Light.
To walk the moon.
China dances with fire.
Attitude of the defeated.
Cheer it up.
Loosen the vice.
Talk of what is unimaginable.
And imagine it.
Space is there.
To be free.
To think a new thought.
To break it.
Then create it.
Crash Tester BMXers.
Odd and peculiar.
The renaissance is near.
Trending in our minds.
What's cool is cool.
What's hot is hot.
What's lame is lame.
Any way we slice it.
Another day to enjoy.
And to endure.
Cinnamon frosts the air.
Breathe it deep in your lungs.
Come near the flames.
Bring scarves and games.
Look past the glow.
These eyes, looking to you, wondering and happy.
No future to worry through, no expectations.
Appreciating the reality of it all.
The time passed and the current distractors.
Only night brings peace, resting and sleeping help the world exist.
Memorized and delivered, ready for the challenge, determined to follow through.
Nothing will stop her now.
Tell them all about it, lightly embellishing the possibilities.
Full of hope, full of excitement.
An afternoon discussion, an evening song.
The sad minds of sore losers.
When justice must be done.
Because it just can't be.
The thought of it appalling.
Then the superiority.
The undefeatable case.
Dictated, without rebutal.
The horribleness of it.
Peace is not involved.
Only droning on and on.
.a girl that gives out recipes.
.one that holds on.
.shakes out your shakes.
.if need be.
.sleeps close at night.
.ready for any road.
.jump a curb and hit the juice.
.leave the pavement behind.
.on to the big skys.
.where earth has scars.
.a place to bust through and seep out.
.ooze like molten lava.
.slowly and without regard.
.engulfing and commanding respect.
.wanted or not.
.accepted or rejected.
Suddenly, the bottom drops.
For all the reasons known.
But it is now, not then.
And now is the only way to really see.
This isn't visions of the future.
Or vivid memories of the past.
Decisions must be made.
It is unavoidable.
Mindset must be had.
Even out of your mind is a mindset.
The brain will not allow a shutdown.
It owns the whole rodeo.
The subconscious and conscious.
The awake and asleep.
The daydreams and nightmares.
Use your mind, it is using you.
Fill it with Love.
Jam it with Word.
Click on the Light.
The Way found you.
Got some good good news.
That's the Truth.
perhaps some time on a mountain, solitude finally.
quiet and peaceful, only nature noises and smells.
alone to breathe and moan.
to help the heart be lit again.
blazing for love and excitement.
or maybe on a beach.
sweet, salty air, heavy with chilling.
the pace of bums.
high tides and afternoon rest.
coastal night walks, with the moon following.
don't know what to do.
let the dreams decide, I suppose.
*Media down from 55 in 1999 to 32 in 2016. Gallup.
*Congress. 41 in 86 to 9. Gallup.
What to do?...avoid.bite your lip.
...got to bring the people back together.
How? Conversational Intelligence is the power to elevate our collective intelligence.***
NY Times columnist Wesley Morris....
The term has become the sad equivalent of the jolly drinking axiom: It’s always national-conversation time somewhere. Whenever the mood around an issue ought to change — guns, policing, marriage, the Oscars — somebody will say we need to talk about it. We should be sitting around and figuring this thing out. We need to have “real,” “substantive,” “difficult” exchanges — about our personal biases, about our bad policies — that reach far and go deep. “It’s time for a national conversation” about mental health, retirement savings, drones.
...national conversation.....to an intelligent national conversation.
Double click exercise. An Intelligent National Conversation.
7 vital conversations***
1*Co-Creating. Be inclusive. Exclusive to inclusive.
2*Humanizing. Be appreciative. Judging to appreciating.
3*Aspiring. Be aspirational. Limiting to expanding.
4*Navigating. Be trusted and collaborative. Withholding to sharing.
5*Generating. Be experimental. Having all the answers to discovering the new.
6*Expressing. Be influential. Dictating to developing.
7*Synchronizing. Be enterprise. Compliance to celebration.
***from the book Conversational Intelligence, by Judith E. Glaser
Acceptance is only an emotion.
It can be intellectually rejected.
It can be refused.
Easily, along with other emotions.
Tougher, when acceptance is felt.
We'll all see.
Business will go on.
Boats will float the oceans and seas.
Lights will be turned on.
The glowhackers will reboot.
Men and women and in betweens.
Looking for kicks.
Listen for the Words of the day.
Mixed with the la la las.
Surrounded by string music.
And low booming drums.
Eratic, and definitely not, static.
And ending abruptly, if need be.
Feel the Spirit.
The Spirit feels you.
The earth is full of its fragrances.
Rising into it's atmosphere.
Unable to be held prisoner.
Released from the surface and gone.
Just now we are spinning into a new day.
The rotation continues and time awareness returns.
Surely the blind are distracted by beauty too.
No doubt the deaf can hum a tune.
Accept or not accept.
Trick your own mind.
It can be done.
Attach the cause to an emotion.
Then, and only then, convince yourself.
Only a closed mind can trick itself.
But closed minds are dumb minds.
And the intellectual becomes sad.
Because of their own hypocricy.
And the intellectual becomes mad.
At themselves really.
Which leads the intellectual to depression.
The soul and the dark nights.
It is hard to open a closed mind.
When the intellectual finally accepts.
The burden is gone.
In huge globs it keeps sliding.
Seperated from the mountain.
Unknown and dangerous.
Unsettling and unexpected.
The shocked stand there.
Insistent, even, that its not real.
Sobered and ignored.
Determining that everyone is stupid.
This is reality.
The ones that knew all along are tired.
The only thing left for the disbelieving is anger, depression, then acceptance.
The full range.
Mud will continue to fall for days.
Then it will stop.
And the landslide will be over.
.so so relative.
.this time conception.
.and the prisoners involved.
.it is continuous and true.
.never able to be removed.
.time becomes a part of our culture.
.unable to be commoditized.
.until time is gone.
.and timelessness begins.
.when time is forgotten we are close.
.close to our eternal nature.
.the brain brings it back.
.it cannot understand.
.it must be occupied.
.and it is close to our corrupted heart.
.so we play tennis at daybreak.
.savings time ridiculousness is irrlevant.
.daybreak is daybreak.
.don't be late.
Huge eyes, rolling around.
Making looks and chasing it.
Respectability, always now.
Dignified and such.
No communication games.
Places with no names.
Signs ahead said skip the blame.
Enough with the shake off please.
Get through to the offended.
They are wasting their time.
Make the music regardless.
Make the steel drums ding.
These emotions of the mind.
And the reality of the heart.
Together, they can be controlled.
With some soul and rhythm.
On a four four beat.
...the long faces of the ancients.
...in a row, generation after generation.
...judging and frowning.
...the guilt of expectations.
...the shame of doubt.
...we are free now.
...walking the river beds.
...hollowed out walls with brittle rocks.
...lines of crystal snake through the red.
...the sandy bottom.
...rough brush, laying low on the trail.
...loose footing and slips.
...to fern cave.
...like eden almost.
...northwest corner of Caprock Canyon.
...near Turkey, Texas.
...where Bob Wills is still the king.
...a quick sit.
...got back on the high ridge.
...then the water ran out.
...the haynes decent went on forever.
...breaking the fall.
...and a buffalo staredown.
...on the road for the final mile.
...cars from far off states rolling by.
...these red walls echo gravity blues.
...fight and scratch to break through.
...tried to look in the soul to find it.
...instead of leaving everything behind.
Alone for now.
Noises of this place enough.
The birds are cawling and errking.
Wind is loud out here.
In the good people lands.
Just the cure for the hurry it ups.
The run arounders.
And the gotta do's.
Run to Spur for lunch.
Walk the town a bit.
Be doing that later.
After my dreams.
Spur, TX. First off, go here. 5 of 5 stars. This cafe off the main downtown road is fantastic. Fantastic if you like tasty gravy. Fantastic of you like perfectly chicken fried chicken fried steak. Fantastic if you like long fresh cut potato tasting fries, texas toast that is fresh and crispy, a salad that is cold. Like some thousand islands. Fantastic if you like big tea cups. Sweeten it yourself if you like. The waitress anticipated, the menues were clean. Locals came through steady. No rush. Passed on the meatloaf special, but bet it was good. Fans silently moving the cool October air around. The chef even came out to clear some dishes. Polite and respectful, not like the mad cooks in the city. Unhinged, like some art is being criticized. Paranoid of thier greatness. Reputation weary. The chef of the Turnaround Cafe seeks irrelevancy for himself and perfection for his food. A very West Texan trait. The customary ToGo ice tea was large and packed with ice. Perhaps some music would be nice, but the fans and creaks and doors of the tidy place rang tunes all thier own. The clangs of dishes, the talk of machines. If leaving Spur, turnaround to the Turnaround Cafe. Fantastic.
Hearing the names for King Of The Court 8 (KOtC8), cleary we are courting the best field ever courted in the history of this perpetual and royal tennis experience. Tournament Administrator Keck's recruiting excellence has built a royal family of tennis Kings and Princes and Dukes and Earls. And the Kings do get the spoils of war. The ransom. King James (2), King The Todd (2), King Stone, King Foster, and King Huff. Glory is theirs.
King Stone and King Huff are back for the KOtC8 crown. The other Kings have unavoidable scheduling conflicts. The perfectly comfortable friday afternoon cold patio blond ale was smooth and delicious. Keck continued to reveal the line up. We were both in, of course. And Joe and William The Earl. Frank Friday had confirmed, prioritizing this event while scheduling his USTA fall season. Another very, very respectable trait that Frank Friday posesses that makes him, a former Prince and Earl, a model KOtC participant. His joy of winning is another.
Bobby was out, perhaps he will attend, perhaps he will write an expose. It could be added to the Isner book. An excerpt, or a quote. Italicized and bolded. He is an excellent playwright, his documented observations would be welcome. Vito is in and the competition committee will ensure that he is placed in my morning round. In KOtC7, before the deluge that marred the trophy ceremonies, we were to meet in the Duke afternoon round. Mysteriously, he had to Roddick and left. His timing was good, he stayed dry, we would have been rained out anyway, but our mahut was never played. Vito is rythym and blues, Vito is rock, Vito destroyed me 8-2 in KOtC6. Yes, we will meet in the morning round of KOtC8. Hunter Foster, son of a King and local collegiate player, is entered and is intense. The Peruvian Berco is returning. Our 5-5 mahut in KOtC7 was very enjoyable, happy he is back again. Really smooth game. Established in their princely royal blood, Marty Feldman and Chris Fess return thirsty as always. Marty always looks as though he could never walk another step after finishing the 60 game, 6 opponent, 5 hour KOtC format. He gives it all to every shot. Even second serves. There is a reason his younger brother, King The Todd, accomplished what he has. In tennis, in his career, in his life. Marty taught him there is more to exaust in our bodies than our minds determine as rational. Marty has now taught us all this truth. Prince Fess, his fierce game, his unreturnable running slice down-the-line backhand, his determined grit, is always thirsty. Relieved that the competition committee has evidently let me avoid playing him in the morning round on the first draft of the matchups. Unreturnable shots are tough.
Rhyder Robison has a spot again. The reputation of his game is glowing. He has been mentored, personally and professionally, by Keck, toiling under his mentorship and leadership. Like what Jared and Jack Keck have endured thier entire lives. Suffering produces perseverance produces character produces hope. It is the only way to greatness. Rhyder is a royal threat. If he don't cramp or get dehydrated. Water is life once again. Drink up. This Scott Verdery was somewhat of a mystery to me. He played in KOtC6, the one played for the French (The French!), when King Foster staked his claim, when the Vita's abruptly, physically, and literally ridded Tupps Brewery of a maniacal, out of control drunk. The man was attaking an elderly couple for no reason. Joe's repeated screams of 'sit down and shut up!' and Bill's legendary involvement is still remembered by the brewmaster and volunteer beer drawers at Tupps. Ultimately, the staff intervened, tossed the drunken man into an UBER, and sent him on his way. Back to the rhythms, back to the rhymes.
As always, Keck has entered The Kid, usually a star player on the Justin Quest led Allen Eagles. Just run us kid, run us around. Only Dayton has earned royal blood as The Kid. KOtC3, Prince Dayton. Then he went off to Shreiner College in Kerrville, TX to join the Mountaineers, where he now plays #6 singles alongside Nick Pena, who plays #3 singles and is also a former The Kid in the KOtC. The Kid is always a legitimate threat. Keck had no name, but the name didn't matter. The final entry is Briggli, evidently a former TCU player originally from Romania. Plays doubles mostly but, in Keck's estimation, a challenger to the throne. With King Stone and Huff entered, we'll see. Duke Holmes is the first alternate in a controversial ommision from the initial 16. Never had a current royal been put in this position. He may never know, this invitation is so exclusive. His complete Kramarian game will be sincerely missed if he doesn't play. Flying to the net always. He considered not entering and being the full time administrator. A Roddicking Keck was incredible in that role as his wrist healed for KOtC7. He is tempted as the format moves forward with Kaizenian intentions and perpetual minds. But his game is back and intact, he has pop on his serve and could be the Prince. Too much game left for Keck to hang up the bandana. He still craves toyal blood. Expansions have been discussed, the Queen Of The Court dreams, different locations, catered after-parties with kegs and boxes of wine.
For now, glory is theirs for the taking in KOtC8. Mahut!
*Daddy never told me nothing bout surviving the deep blues.
*Never let me know how to fight and scratch just to break through.
*Guess he never had to look in his mind to see what he'd find.
*Avoided the emotions by hitting the road almost every time.
*Now I'm in a spot, like it or not, got the deep blues.
*Every day I feel like running away and sometimes I do.
*Midnight run to the North End so I could pray to you.
*You took my rap then you sent me back, then I knew.
*Hold on til morning comes, the deep blues'll pass.
*Find a room to play some tunes, do it fast.
*Sing about loss, sing about the boss, it ain't your fault.
*Times like these when your on your knees, plead baby plead baby plead baby plead.
These are days of blues.
The melancholy has been fed.
It has grown unattended.
In a general sense.
A companion always.
The canvas of my life.
Colors of playfulness and joy.
Occupiers of attention for a moment.
Like a dream almost.
Pylons and barriers everywhere.
Orange was the color.
The runners must be safe.
The traffic must be directed.
Get through to the circle drive and drop it all off.
Beat up and used.
Clear and clean is the air.
A beautiful short fall begining again in Texas.
Catch it quick.
The plug in woes.
Turning dials and checking connections.
A reboot of the reboot.
And the noise was amplified.
Grateful Dead jam to start.
Then P57MONK with the house set.
Incredible sounding winds and robot voices behind a layered array of riffs, rhythms, and other interesting sounds, repeating perfectly and transitioning with fades and DJ engineering.
Nantucket was next.
As always loud and rocking like the ocean, deep waves and crashing downs, prepared for survival in a solid boat before heading off to laramie with a masterpiece.
Popped an Oktoberfest and checked in on the Horns.
The Okies thirsty revenge.
Dodged a choo choo train.
High fives to the silver and bronze.
Gold was too quick.
Then New Sounds arrived.
Tight strat, bass, drum trio, missing their lyricist forth, but not needing her this day. Clear lead, precise drums, and bass lines carrying the audience through it all like a magic carpet ride. Only family can get that kind of sound.
The dunking booth was busy.
Everyone wanted a shot.
Went 1 for 3 serving as a mercenary.
.333 average ain't bad.
A brew for MONK as the headliners arrived.
The BoomBachs will play high noon next year.
Dual keys delivered a full sound, these 7 Denton dudes brought the whole show, the bearded lyricist and the drums of rose. Words with multiple syllables sharply finished off then another, and others followed, all coming together to define the mood.
The music lovers remained.
Strollers strolled off.
Runners ran off.
And the fish were biting.
...the storms only last for awhile my babe.
...destruction is always followed by peace.
...and the worst day is followed by the best.
...plugged everything in and got sound.
...resting in nantucket til the early morning.
...the give-up is only a temporary solution.
...forgiveness and love will always remain.
...the hope that the vision will be seen again.
...like it was imagined in the kissing days.
...so sad is the sight of insecurity and fear.
...active eyes keeping watch on all the backs.
...emotions and moods are seperate indeed.
...like splashes of color on a solid canvas.
...conditions are perfect for a masterpiece.
...merely an announcement of the band.
...no audience interactions or witty remarks.
...songs with no names play in succession.
...polite nods and appreciation to close.
A perfectly comfortable day.
If you are motivated by relaxation.
A chance to gain knowledge.
If you enjoy thinking.
A musical time of your life.
If fun is your thing.
A thousand cliffs to climb.
If you need the rush.
A brand new European car.
If you want some prestige.
A moment of celebration.
If the bell is rang.
A challenge to guide them through.
If we need find our way out of a cave.
A spotlight and a microphone.
If you are an american idol.
A corner office in the C suite.
If that's who you want to be.
A moonlight candle lit dinner for two.
If love is in the air.
A tape recorder and tablet.
If documentation is required.
A lifestyle of adjusting routines.
If energy is to be maintained.
The talkers talked last night.
Talked about the elimination of class.
The understanding that few things are more important than posture.
Much is written as opinions are formed. More is written before opinions are formed. No opinions changed. A discussion of woe. Why we must change instead of what change will harvest.
The liquidation of the greaser middle. The slick profession. Where the lube is heavy indeed. Where the rippers and cheaters live. The back room and its smoke. Deals cut. The art of it all. Only a few get in. Almost impossible to get out.
A collection of the people will decide. The machines must be monitored. Glitches, hacks, and hackers all around. Our underbelly no longer invisible. Our system crumbled in an awful mess. Moving parts will freeze up, lock up, and rust up, pouting and screeching.
Truth just lingers. The Truth predicted. Truth is vindicated. As always, eventually.
Elevated almost. Like a new man. A new tennis man. Old burdens gone. The knowledge of futility is eliminated. It is no longer true. An ascension to a higher tennis plane. Planned long ago, a better game developed. Intentional and deliberate, recurring and recurring. Overcoming breaks and strains. Catching breaths and hydrating constantly. The pace is important. Anxious hurries and double fault worries are fatal. Incredible the interior games within the match. Nerves lit and sweat pouring into pools. The heat and the winds drying it quickly. Too much tennis charity from my opponent. Too many mistakes. Comebacks and advantages. No cross court power today. Unusual. Standing back unleashes the pop. The pronation gives the serve another look. From the top of the swing, after the butt muscles have launched and as the shoulder turn has snapped back. Chin up. Tournagrips are needed, in abundent supply. Headbands and bandanas. The net was giving. Shots of destiny, games of inexplicable victory. Ronnie Wood can sing. Bound For Glory with Neil Young and Waylon and Willie. Music is a fabulous addition to Isner Scoring Method culture. A Kazenian improvement made possible and pracical by Bluetooth. Evolution of the glowface era. The future shines bright indeed. The light! The light! It is truth. The classic match victory over The Lion Duke Joe Vita, my first in 32 years of regular tennis, was a moment of exaltation. The page can turn, although now, I want to be a Duke too. KOtC8 is two months from now. Preparations continue. Mahut!
...the heart can only beat for a time.
...it sputters and clogs eventually.
...but it pumps and pumps til then.
...lighting up the city with electricity.
...letting the speakers wail on loud.
...creating tears of joy and pain.
...breaking and healing over and over.
...scar tissue remaining as reminders.
...memories long and unforgiving.
...minds unreliable and inexact.
...comforts and security of home.
...escaping the social mediums.
...fear of associations and weakness.
...untrusting of instincts and eyes.
...the truth is not in us.
...take your stand. when the microphone is running. all the complaints of the age. this hard, hard life. nationalism and the place of your birth. a permanent mark, identifying a nature. further descriptions are made. cultures within cultures. rivalries and grudges persist for no reason at all. accents and the unknown. extend the hand of love. learn the nuances and insinuations. listen to the talk of the young. the disgust they feel. from the pettiness of our leaders. the greed and untrustworthiness. small minds of insiders. puffed up like cotton candy. oily hands, rotting souls. if I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me? cause I'm as free as a bird now, and this bird you cannot change. the flag is flying still. through the hatred, through the ignorance, through the weak. come and take it. surrendering is impossible to the minds of the free. independence and the freak out. the lone stars can slip out the back, they owe nothing. Yucatan Nights, Down on the Brazos, Blue As The Sea Of Cortez, Swamp Queen, Texico Eight Step, El Juarez Blues, East Texas Pines, Twister Day, Chili War, No More Border, and Come All You Senoritas. the music always plays. utopia is dancing with swirls and glowers. the alternative is reality, and reality is real. spirits are numb, defeated and stale. only a bucket of water in an ocean. these massive, massive oceans. a splash or two is all. yell it out. loud, louder than ever. liberty boys and girls, looking for fun. looking for kicks. searching for taste. while we're still young and learning. before the dim locator, and the sleepy awakes. kneel on a knee, be serious in your stand. summon the cameras for your statement. mumbling and whining, you can do better than that. give a million, and take a huge deduction, to prove your sincerity. the rich! the rich! Texico and the rearrangement, a sensible way to peace...
*stevie wonder show.
*we're a happy family. (ramones)
*off to laramie.
*two tone ride.
*dead flowers. (stones)
*sweet ole time.
*heaven is badass.
*peaceful easy feeling. (eagles)
*one rung at a time.
*batman. (bob schneider)
*just before the thinking starts.
The framing and agreements.
Accessing the stage.
Direct the movie or help it along.
The point of emphasis.
A missed opportunity.
The do-over theory fails again.
Try it out.
Solve instead of blaming.
Think it through.
Don't pick two or three.
Just the one.
Agree to agree on the agreement.
To each thier own.
Clearly defined and true.
These writings are filed away.
Always, they will exist.
The left hand. Drinks should be held in the left hand at parties. This leaves the right hand open for high fives, knuckle pops, and shakes. The scrips are fading, mind wires are newly rewired. Distracted by the elements themselves, gotta slow and think and listen. Disrupted by funny forces. An active mind. The blues are easy, self pity comes natural. A waste of time. This finite time. Good for the goose, but what about the gander. Skip a phase and question reality. Find meaning in the known way. It is reality.
When decisions are made.
When sleep is lost.
For another day.
Camera drones that flutter.
Like the mockingbirds.
One by one into the Pacific Sea.
This metal, light as styrofoam.
Lighter than tin.
Stronger than steel.
Wavering in the wind.
Researched and developed.
Tried and tried and tried.
Not fearing the future.
Learning from the past.
A wild party up there.
Dancing freely and loose.
Bopping back and forth.
Like a celebration toast.
Hollars and whoopies.
Arms and hands raised up.
Together they sway.
Hips moving it all around.
Breaks and thumps.
Then a cosmic slowdown.
Occupying the space.
Full pillars of musical smoke.
Playing all the way through.
Old and young under the same sun.
Facing the same future.
His aversion to meatless meals was known.
This aversion is unexplained and explanation is unimportant.
Perhaps there are deeper divisions.
It could be a proxy.
Her offering something knowing it will be rejected is a certain kind of agitation.
The rejection happened politely, despite the irritation.
Accomodations were made.
This unresolved lasagne conflict.
A meat pizza pie was ordered.
Or two, it was.
Quietly, so the little ones suspected nothing.
Then the insistence, and the truth is invoked.
Statistics and personal testimonials.
Reminded of Guy Clark's homegrown tomatoes.
Of eggplant parmesan.
The tofu I've had.
Even now I crave that vegan italian dish.
But this was another's story.
And this happened in Connecticut.
His resistance to the insistence offended her.
Any preacher's folly.
This was punk rock, is what it was.
Stubborn and unrelenting, destructive to peace.
No meating halfway.
This was only the first night.
They found common ground eventually, both insisting to each other that The Don is the end of America.
Politics, bringing Mother In Laws and Son In Laws together since time began.
I dig The Don so I just kept quiet.
...the light is only getting dimmer. the lost must sleep too. restless and worried, we are all occupied. the tricks and lies. promises of splendor. into the mush they roam, jumping on trains and planes. boots on the ground, like an old voice of yesterday. the eyes have it. they see it clear. but they can be shut, they can be closed, for just a bit of gold. the way it works, dedicating lives of service. fighting hard for us, consequential decisions and leadership. all greased, of course. eases the friction. smoothness and gliding hums. the machine is not broke. it is running as designed. perfectly, in fact. but, it is not our machine. we are only providing the electricity, there is nothing in return. what the machine produces goes out the back. on to trucks. in the middle of the night and on weekends. it runs all the time. generators full of gasoline stand by. in case a fuse pops. wires run under all the seas. satellites above transmit constantly. even now, everything is recorded. ant drones, working for the queen. machines like this must be sledgehammered. even the microprocessors must be smashed. every part of every part must be liquified. with this melted molten a new structure can be cast. with no moving parts, solid and inspiring. no grease required, and without mechanical breakdowns. wireless and connected. peaceful and true. the blues will wail. the academics will mock. the anchors will go bust. for the people they say. of the people we say...
the floods came, started early and washed the land. unexpected for another 500 years. floods like no one had ever seen. the skies were hot. beyond red and purple, we drove through the white. bright bolts guiding our way, thunder only one beat behind.
nothing like the blind drive, though. on the mountain highway, coming off the slick red cliffs, Tracy Chapman tunes and not feeling the road. line driving at night, hypnotic snow show in the light beams ahead. tight tight neck, muscles clenched down the back. eyes useless looking forward, just line driving.
the flood stalled and kept flooding. heavy water going. these are lowlands to begin with. down from the delta, where the ocean has found its way in, where swamps are always wet, where it's muddy. a corvette spin, a rocking truckload, and double tow setup. a few of the hazards. escaped to the north, through Alexandria and on to Texas. these roads must be lifted, put the houses on stilts.
.superstitious and karma heads.
.movements seen from a perch.
.the ball flew over the wall.
.blue tag is what you need.
.checked in at the ariel dunes.
.the first one.
.with welcome soaps and mats.
.one go round is all.
.red flag full out and flapping.
.beach, white and soft as always.
.waves made by deep sea storms.
.curling big and crashing.
.dove right through it.
.with a pain in the neck.
.the edge is so near.
.golfers hacking up the grass.
.a few are pure and true.
.dark clouds with lightening bolts.
.take a nap til afternoon.
.the butterfly stroke.
.more medals than anyone ever.
.this food is stale.
.get some flavor going.
.fried fried fried's been tried tried tried.
.no coasting on the emerald coast.
.finishing the season strong.
.with smiles and welcomes.
.stopping in the big easy on the way back.
.jazzing it up, late and greezy.
.the senoritas watching out.
.preoccupations and frustrations.
.moments of life.
Gone are the days of worry. The days of a perception game. When the moves mattered and the slights were noted. It is forward with open mind and willing soul. Just as music is better as it evolves over time, each evolution taking from the others. Music is the worst when it is sucked back into nostalgic rewind. Classic rock is a sorry myth. Move beyond comfort. Ignore your instincts. Determine your path. This is where free will matters. There is no salvation in it, of course, but there is liberation and joy. Salvation is another matter and not a choice. It was an act, historical and true. For now, strive to serve, not to please. Enjoy people and things and places. Sporadic actions and random curiosities. Settle library debts. Don't go silently, seek to understand and determine. There is scientific knowledge of great importance. An unorthodoxed approach, initiating and agreeing to disagree. No pawn of any system, nobody's efficient machine. Complexities of the next stage.
Just give it all away.
Be nice and don't hate.
Envy nothing or nobody.
Live and let live.
As they say.
Shun thievery and thuggery.
These are good things.
Regaldless of our inability to always implement these good things fully or without reservations.
If you can accept this, then you should.
Some are born.
Some are made.
Cold hearts are not intended.
Laws upon laws.
The young cannot be hindered.
They will go and be sought.
Just as He seeks the old.
Animosity is not permanent.
Renewal of all things.
On those twelve thrones.
Fortunes will change.
into the wilderness they went.
there is snakes there too.
only the cold shoulder works.
cut out the heat.
the coolness of it all.
light and floating.
the air moved around by huge winds.
then off again to maintain momentum.
but a rest in the stillness of the desert.
the dry lands.
where water is truly life.
and life is fought for and loved.
bury the chains of expectations.
pray for the ghost.
stop the madness of success.
the blood and body are enough.
and failures are forgiven too.
ready for the big sleep.
ocean roars hypnotizing.
smell of a salty breeze.
for a period of time only.
running short on peace
attainment of priorities
talk of the elders
the word gets through
like it does
encourage and wait
when then comes to an end
void of units
locked in this age
free spirits still fly
lunatics on the floor
hope in men and women
the folly of the parties
slogans and hats
microphones and hollow noise
dizzy heat from the concrete
what we take for granted
and the pipeline fills
hustlers and masked people
in the name of their god
the bastard's lies
minds of babies
convinced of justice
defend the indefensible
it is unimportant
fear, I mean
let the rock out
the song lingers and lingers
form a square
work the patterns
they fit together somehow