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Point taken. Good point. Not perpendicular thoughts, really, as the proof is in triumphant pudding. People try and people succeed and people are inspired and lifted ..& my genuine aim is to be of the same opinion and be furthered by the idea. Everybody knows just how sorely we can use a bit of that kind of motivation lately. We’re due, we, the people, of….
It’s jus’ that, overall, if the majority of nose breathing beings are asunder fuckthumb aims for the bloody duration, paying trillions t’ feed the wiles o some wasteful well off, …then how can we (no matter how good it feeds our egos or our sense of right & wrong, our highs-&-lows, our loves, our laughter, logic and accountability, our throws of passion or pain or perfection) label anything a successful venture in earth & humanity? Liken it to sealing a moth inside a jar and labeling it a successful bug adventurer for merely being able to see and feel or even sense (however a bug does it) the light outside its glass dungeon---It can fly but it can’t unscrew a lid. Unless there is life after this one, and that’s an itchy subject, to be sure, then no success short of the triumph over human oppression can possibly be definitive of any honest notion of earthly success. ..It seems we truly are Hunter S. Thompson’s rubes; …maybe even Bukowski’s engulfing nullity. IMHO, anything that does not act to effect benevolence and the essentials of whole-life and liberty is a classifiable letdown for any species that thinks-therefore-is. & so far…EVERY act that has worked towards this end (or beginning) has led us to NOW. This now wherein we remain under fuckthumb! Now, where a seemingly good President can be bottlenecked in Congress so bad it leaves a stain.
There may be a cure for Leukemia because of human success..but we are subjugated still.
I don’t know that I have anything more to add, David B. In a pop & mom world, mom & pop, & family, friends, they add woe as well as whoopee to our reveries of a meaningful existence …or whatever. On or about the times we are individualizing our own personal brands of in the now & consequent living id, maintenance, choices, studies, experiences, escapes, they too are making their own headway, at times smashing ours but usually just there in the peripherals, tripping over their own shadows and knocking about in the dark and the light. These days I question, more than ever, the point of it all. I have come to realize, at nearly 46 years young, that I am, at best, maybe of average to slightly above average wit, depending on the day & the subject matter, but that still puts me well below the curve and that means there are some really fackin’ smarty-pants folks out there who have been way over my head for decades. & these good people, in all their invaluable splendor, appear stumped. …Gives me the willies.
In fact…
it’s probable that you knew more as early as someone caught me when I stumbled half naked through the rubble she kissed me and she mumbled “peace and togetherness” than I do even now. ..So tradin’ any sorta eights wit you’d be like arguing thoroughbred handicapping with a veteran jockey/trainer, daddio. Like nickel-ante at the twenty-dollar table. Messy can barely ‘old iz own with PJ, glimpse our Cassie one in 3 ways, Andrea can look left right through me, only fathomed Rossy twice or five times, at best, Herring makes me anxious ‘cause grammatically my fiction squeaks like unprotected garage door spring and I know he sees that stuff comin’ a mile away, and that sweetie pie, Reg, could not be more frightening, shuffling muffle-cotton socks while wielding a mighty sword, & how the pixies, Brad n McMicky, to be sure, continue to evade me flyswatter ... whilst they joust n transmigrate into mi casa famalia is a puzzle-spree that whirls and twisters like a banshee dust bowl red devil mustering outside a pup tent, swelling, and (no, ..not Robin, the batboy) Ed, the batman, won’t even gi’me the wrong time o day. I‘m takin’ in water here faster than the buckets can bail..this dbis conundrum. …So ..oh best I stick the steely fork in and call it relinquished…but not necessarily quits yet. Like I’m really gona hold down one end of a dialogue wit the likes o’ you, that’s a hoot, in ..this 21st Century.
This is a ramble a jamble … a way to unscramble my own heavyhearted spark of life … that threatens to become as atrophied as my precious best girl’s muscles have gotten even though we remain involved in every form of low impact training we can manage together. If I went too far, …far enough to finally have worn out my dbis welcome, then that’s the stripe of my particular affliction, I suppose, but I cannot stop pressing on. ….The fat lady has not sung shit …the pendulum still swings above the pit …our goose ain’t cooked yet
…even though Reg, it seems, has stopped waxing controversial.
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