deducing a need to realize induction.

If you don’t have one thing,
Then you May have any thing that is
other than that which you don’t have. 

*May: absolutely Do (adjective denoting verb) have capacity for having ______ .

wonderful.

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.

menthols

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. 

some times

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

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.

Language & Neon

It was a fun time to live.

When?

Right now.

Dear Wife,

Be kind. For I am a boy in a man’s thoughts. 

Terroni’s on Queen West.

Over dinner:

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? 

Told

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.