I have no problem with the use of those words which elaborate on, and allude to, shades of, offshoots of, happiness. And so I’ll describe my thus-far journey in my seat, on the train, as Wonderful. I’ve de-seated myself several times, for the washroom once, for my bag in the storage compartment, more than once, for my laptop, for my notes to be put away, for my earphones to come out with me. I have no issue with the use of those words which elaborate on, and allude to, shades of, offshoots of, happiness. And so I’ll describe my trending motions of usefulness as being enjoying. As being supremely enjoying, even. My motivation broils enthusiasm. My enthusiasm broiled gives me excess, even, even. I am productive. I am productive. I am productive. I harvest my smiles in later-ness, pouring over my filing cabinets like the morning’s leafy storages of dewy, plump rain-beads.
Slowly my mind-pot and hand-pans begin searing into oxygen, that energy will deplete, and that motivation alone will not suffice the bridge to Doing, without energy. The harsh sound of that brutal steel, heated as it is, needn’t. I evolve from my complacency to only breathe, and move to that kitchen in my mind’s heart, that one that is slow in deep chestnut, long-board wooden flooring. Slow in dull shines of cleanliness amongst the aluminum appliances, dusked by the knot-wood cupboards overtop. Slow in the loving family, whose joy I am to be a toiling genesis for, that I’ve yet still to assemble and build preservatives for, out of Robin-bird wing-feathers, and in-tact Acorns, bound in the swing-branch of a Weeping Willow that dried in Pine sap. I evolve from my complacency to only breathe, and move to that kitchen in my mind’s heart, that one that is slow, and deep, and long, and in honey-drizzled memories a’fable. I take the pot and the pan from their burners, by their stick-out handles. That burners are of use, is there, but if time is a geography of usefulness, I descend from that summit once hearing the absence of what end I climbed at all. The sweet whistling that was harsh sound is my socked-foot evolution, from a room into a room, across a floor onto a floor. To recall in the exhaustion and clean, well-water bucket of appreciation, at the chair, from whence you Did - to where you’ll Now. Drawing the smile like the wetly-dew of a leafy green, that smothering your Forward in the coyly obnoxious redeeming gratitude is rich, Milk Chocolate, and your being wholly endured for, in your wealthy joy.
I’ll describe my thus-far journey in my seat, on the train, as Wonderful.
I’m back on a familiar porch, riddled and knotted as it is in memory. Toxic in its remittance of questions ending in insufficient sighs. What will you do? And there’s no Samuel Jackson about this place, no Robert Duvall from Get Low - but closer, I’ll admit, to the latter.
I’ve got a cigarette between my fingers as I’m typing this, using my middle finger as my index and it seems to be doing the job. Tennessee Honey in my mouth. Who are you? Butts and casual indifference; still a friend pulls into the driveway out front, and I can here the 4.2 litre.
What is this to me?
Even weaponized as you are, a tank on the lazy river only billows like exhaust. So, to suffice, I’m breathing.
I’m stirring in a hangover from the night last, thinking on the couch about an axe I just bought and the animal[istic] splitting I did with it. It’s a damn sexy axe, with its black, carbon fibre - hollow - handle and shaft, and a deep charcoal blade. I raised it over my t-shirt - head and felt the happy weight in my shoulders, all taught and poised. With a human’s roar, I throw down the axe and split into a fallen tree. Wood cracks—
I go to swing again, with my entire body, with so much upper - lateral - vigour,
Like a blossom of mirth, a varnished token of good will knocks into bark as it tumbles down from a local canopy. A chorus of children’s laughter - because it makes me happiest. A weeping willow and its light green swath. Rhythmic dancing beyond the shimmering leaves, o’ way up high - by windy invite, only. The tugging thread-tangles at t-shirt’s sleeve, o’ grassy blades, were you emerald or fade, soft, soft, soft. Weaving lid-lashes across and closed, one close-mouth’ed sip at the moon-drink of tomorrow, and I’m slipping off my decorum, for a spirited peace.
Reading about Vicious Gay-Pride Beatings in Ukraine,
I cannot propose we exhibit alone our sexual, political, or ideological diversities - as a means to grow a safe environment for them. I propose a culling of the ignorant and unwilling. They are the exact opposite of diverse, the exact opposite of progress, the exact opposite of all betterment, even unto their selves. Fuck em.
I know that what comes next is something I’ve seen before. I do not know what comes. I know I haven’t seen much that wasn’t overwhelmingly useful. I know it like that growing knot underneath a tendon. That tenuous aching that what comes is crucial.
Here’s the thing. Want is the mother of misery, right? And there Was happiness in the Hobbesian state, only, it was had by few instead of many. Alternative living was conceived, which was to create New Want. The new want is dependant on a Usage, and the Usage facilitates the Fulfillment - and the completion of that cycle is happiness. There was an onus on what Can be done, and what Cannot be done. Then, for Want, was: what Will be done, and what Won’t be done. Usefulness became the unsung Hero of complexity’s origins, the Cartilage. It was Chosen that methodology could produce alternative living, and cousins of happiness were sprouted: the “good” and the “moral”. But, in the end, they are still fabrications. Inventions. Herein lies the fallacy of modern existence, the Big Joke and the Reason anyone still believes that it is not space which exists after the sky - but heaven (somewhere). So, if you’re gonna think about anything, think about what Will be done, and what Will Not be done. Realism produces more long-term appreciative happiness than vague, unguided, unproven, random idealism. We’re animals, we die, all we have is our lives and the Earth - so, perhaps, it may only make any Real sense to take up a biocentric, speciest foundation for everything. If what’s best for humanity as a species is to maintain and uphold the planetary equilibrium (as we Do depend on it), then it will Also be in the best interests of the other species we coexist with. That’s what’s Best for us. Ironically enough, if we interpret “goodness” and “morality” as inventions, as they are, then we can opt not to adhere to them. Better to replace them with ideas of Usefulness, and Decide what Of the currently existing ideas in-line with “goodness” and “morality” may be covered by a speciest, biocentric approach. If we align Usefulness with “goodness”, then what is Best becomes what is Most “Good”, and what is Most “Good” becomes what is Best. Oh, the C’t Mang pizza here is amazing. Pear slices, honey, prosciutto, walnuts, mozzarella, thin crust — mm. What’re you having?
A great omniscient spool in the stratosphere is unwinding over Ontario, today. Looks like a wick of clouds began to pour out its burden, to clarify, for our eyes, the sweetness of colours. Young men will sit just inside from it, at vacant dining room tables. Listening.
The life it gives to the brown, wooden deck and chairs is superb. Here the oily sky dabs at, and tongues off, the residues of past mischiefs, and repaints them in scarcely noticed masterpieces. Every fade, every knot in the wood is brought to a one, seamless flaw in the magnifying glass. Perfectly damaged. I wish I could be so thickly wonderful.
You gave me your number but I was preoccupied with other versions of you. I saw some kind of equestrian, the other day. Between that park bench with the rickety this and the wobbly that, and my own head full of thinking. I never sat long enough to nail the end of your yellow spring dress down to the ply by my side. Radical smudges of noses and cheeks into bed sheets, waiting for you to call me. Yeah, the diagnosis is illness. With a sketchy prognosis of insidious derailment against full blown remission, how could I smudge out your lipstick from the filter? But put my own lips around it and think about the fumes of you.
I had an argument with my Dad, over dinner, about heaven. He couldn’t sum up enough patience, so he said — So, you hope there is no heaven and that nothing happens after? To which I could only say, I don’t hope for anything - I just know what is for sure. You know what’s beyond the sky? Space.
Someone taught you to take a specific kind of pleasure. Right? They told you in their veins, they said, I enjoy the Power. And you knew the deep teal fear, fluorescent and angular. How much purity can go into any one emotion? Apparently 99.99% can be managed in Fear. Licking the fingers of weaponized honour you were raised up from the wayside and suddenly you were grave in nature. “I didn’t feel a thing,” speaking about just now. And you are thin, too. Flailing flakes of flame like snow all around you, bursting into bites at oxygen. Oh, but you Are, aren’t you. You’re just as high on the pain you felt as you are on the aggression you now know, to go back and get it. So that you may give it to others, just like it was given to you.
There you are in your favourite leather chair. You’re half aware of things today, decidedly smoking a cigarette. (You know I love cigarettes.) And your blazer hangs at angles to the sides. Knee bent, one leg lanky by the heel on the floor. You’re fingering a skull and turning it over in your hand, Who are you, Macbeth? - and I point my face to the left of you while leaving my eyes to look. You look like a hiccup when you suck in the smoke sometimes, and you raise your brows. I didn’t leave the crappy iron-frame window open, You know how it creaks. Mm, as if the sound is consolidating. But it’s not. And the shouting in my head goes unheard in the room. Bam, bam, bam.
we don’t know what happened. A blackness was seen, and fists were thrown before a tongue could form the words needed. Nothing was meant but destruction, and, so, there was nothing But destruction. Even in the Self. Fire couldn’t ooze - until vulgarity was spewed. And all the hues - like pits of black - they seeped from flexed knuckles and the knotted murder in the eye. Fuel for that sort of thing is always at arm’s length in this time.
Sharply pointed sticks can inflict more severe wounds. They skew the crucial. Then they breathe lifelike quality into hands, just to express the unwillingness to heal you. Palms at their sides. Letting only Eyes do their thing.
Everything else cows to authority in the moment. The decider. And who was that? That was you. You wanted for nothing, and you wanted nothing. You wanted so much nothing.
Stop and wonder if there’s such a thing as bad and good. What you won’t do and what you will do. Stop and consider consideration. Like the that-you-could-be-wrong. And give it out, too. Was it wrong? Or was it just not the correct direction, based on something else, something you’re not considering. Consider the consideration that you might not consider what you don’t consider. All any ‘it’ can be: is incorrect, given the variables. You have end effects, and you have variables. And you do not Have - outside of those two ideas. There’s no god, and the ‘moral’ invention slurs our words. Nobody makes decisions anymore.
Last night was nothing. We sat smoking in worn out leather chairs like the low-ceiling, after-market ambience itself. Someone’s tie was loose. And the other guy, with an effort, could stand. Grey and off-grey mushroom clouds blew out of our mouths, all burnt. Our shoulders in suits watched over like ridges, in our near-circle. Everyone pouring their cindering bodies into the centre. From sullen eyes and lids laden with rust, wisdom wretched. It was a difficult thing, to get so thinly left over. To exist so excruciatingly soft. No consequences left that room, not a one. Not from us. There, he spat on the floor. And here, we brushed an ash off our ties. Always looking passible, should, for any reason, someone call on one of us. Or maybe we got by without trying a whole lot. He said he wasn’t sure. He said he was, he said the society was not as clever as him. I don’t know. I dust off my arms, and I do light a cigarette. But only to leave. Only to make that transition, as I turned the knob and left - trailing fumes as I go. What can you say to me?
"I ain’t dead yet."
With a sarcastically dry, wry smile - cigarette in mouth, I say, “Sure. Hah. So was I.” To close the door behind me.